The Humorous Poetry of the English Language; from Chaucer to Saxe

by Unknown

LINES

ADDRESSED TO ** **** ***** ON THE 29TH Of SEPTEMBER
WHEN WE PARTED FOR THE LAST TIME.
PUNCH.

I have watch'd thee with rapture, and dwelt on thy charms,
As link'd in Love's fetters we wander'd each day;
And each night I have sought a new life in thy arms,
And sigh'd that our union could last not for aye.

But thy life now depends on a frail silken thread,
Which I even by kindness may cruelly sever,
And I look to the moment of parting with dread,
For I feel that in parting I lose thee forever.

Sole being that cherish'd my poor troubled heart!
Thou know'st all its secrets—each joy and each grief;
And in sharing them all thou did'st ever impart
To its sorrows a gentle and soothing relief.

The last of a long and affectionate race,
As thy days are declining I love thee the more,
For I feel that thy loss I can never replace—
That thy death will but leave me to weep and deplore.

Unchanged, thou shalt live in the mem'ry of years,
I can not—I will not—forget what thou wert!
While the thoughts of thy love as they call forth my tears,
In fancy will wash thee once more—MY LAST SHIRT.
GRUB-STREET.

MADNESS. PUNCH.

There is a madness of the heart, not head—
That in some bosoms wages endless war;
There is a throe when other pangs are dead,
That shakes the system to its utmost core.

There is a tear more scalding than the brine
That streams from out the fountain of the eye,
And like the lava leaves a scorched line,
As in its fiery course it rusheth by.

What is that madness? Is it envy, hate,
Or jealousy more cruel than the grave,
With all the attendants that upon it wait
And make the victim now despair, now rave?

It is when hunger, clam'ring for relief,
Hears a shrill voice exclaim, "That graceless sinner,
The cook, has been, and gone, and burnt the beef,
And spilt the tart—in short, she's dish'd the dinner!"

THE BANDIT'S FATE. PUNCH.

He wore a brace of pistols the night when first we met,
His deep-lined brow was frowning beneath his wig of jet,
His footsteps had the moodiness, his voice the hollow tone,
Of a bandit-chief, who feels remorse, and tears his hair alone—
I saw him but at half-price, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

A private bandit's belt and boots, when next we met, he wore
His salary, he told me, was lower than before;
And standing at the O. P. wing he strove, and not in vain,
To borrow half a sovereign, which he never paid.
I saw it but a moment—and I wish I saw it now—
As he buttoned up his pocket with a condescending bow.

And once again we met; but no bandit chief was there;
His rouge was off, and gone that head of once luxuriant hair
He lodges in a two-pair back, and at the public near,
He can not liquidate his "chalk," or wipe away his beer.
I saw him sad and seedy, yet methinks I see him now,
In the tableau of the last act, with the blood upon his brow.

LINES WRITTEN AFTER A BATTLE. BY AN ASSISTANT SURGEON OF THE NINETEENTH NANKEENS. PUNCH.

Stiff are the warrior's muscles,
Congeal'd, alas! his chyle;
No more in hostile tussles
Will he excite his bile.
Dry is the epidermis,
A vein no longer bleeds—
And the communis vermis
Upon the warrior feeds.

Compress'd, alas! the thorax,
That throbbed with joy or pain;
Not e'en a dose of borax
Could make it throb again.
Dried up the warrior's throat is,
All shatter'd too, his head:
Still is the epiglottis—
The warrior is dead.

THE PHRENOLOGIST TO HIS MISTRESS. PUNCH.

Though largely developed's my organ of order,
And though I possess my destructiveness small,
On suicide, dearest, you'll force me to border,
If thus you are deaf to my vehement call

For thee veneration is daily extending,
On a head that for want of it once was quite flat;
If thus with my passion I find you contending,
My organs will swell till they've knocked off my hat

I know, of perceptions, I've none of the clearest;
For while I believe that by thee I'm beloved,
I'm told at my passion thou secretly sneerest;
But oh! may the truth unto me never be proved!

I'll fly to Deville, and a cast of my forehead
I'll send unto thee;—then upon thee I'll call.
Rejection—alas! to the lover how horrid—
When 'tis passion that SPURS-HIM, 'tis bitter as GALL.

THE CHEMIST TO HIS LOVE. PUNCH.

I love thee, Mary, and thou lovest me—
Our mutual flame is like th' affinity
That doth exist between two simple bodies:
I am Potassium to thine Oxygen.
'Tis little that the holy marriage vow
Shall shortly make us one. That unity
Is, after all, but metaphysical
O, would that I, my Mary, were an acid,
A living acid; thou an alkali
Endow'd with human sense, that, brought together,
We both might coalesce into one salt,
One homogeneous crystal. Oh! that thou
Wert Carbon, and myself were Hydrogen;
We would unite to form olefiant gas,
Or common coal, or naphtha—would to heaven
That I were Phosphorus, and thou wert Lime!
And we of Lime composed a Phosphuret.
I'd be content to be Sulphuric Acid,
So that thou might be Soda. In that case
We should be Glauber's Salt. Wert thou Magnesia
Instead we'd form that's named from Epsom.
Couldst thou Potassa be, I Aqua-fortis,
Our happy union should that compound form,
Nitrate of Potash—otherwise Saltpeter.
And thus our several natures sweetly blent,
We'd live and love together, until death
Should decompose the fleshly TERTIUM QUID,
Leaving our souls to all eternity
Amalgamated. Sweet, thy name is Briggs
And mine is Johnson. Wherefore should not we
Agree to form a Johnsonate of Briggs?
We will. The day, the happy day, is nigh,
When Johnson shall with beauteous Briggs combine.

A BALLAD OF BEDLAM. PUNCH.

O, lady wake!—the azure moon
Is rippling in the verdant skies,
The owl is warbling his soft tune,
Awaiting but thy snowy eyes.
The joys of future years are past,
To-morrow's hopes have fled away;
Still let us love, and e'en at last,
We shall be happy yesterday.

The early beam of rosy night
Drives off the ebon morn afar,
While through the murmur of the light
The huntsman winds his mad guitar.
Then, lady, wake! my brigantine
Pants, neighs, and prances to be free;
Till the creation I am thine,
To some rich desert fly with me.

STANZAS TO AN EGG. [BY A SPOON.] PUNCH.

Pledge of a feather'd pair's affection,
Kidnapped in thy downy nest,
Soon for my breakfast—sad reflection!—
Must thou in yon pot be drest.

What are the feelings of thy mother?
Poor bereaved, unhappy hen!
Though she may lay, perchance, another,
Thee she ne'er will see again.

Yet do not mourn. Although above thee
Never more shall parent brood.
Know, dainty darling! that I love thee
Dearly as thy mother could.

A FRAGMENT. PUNCH.

His eye was stern and wild,—his cheek was pale and cold as clay;
Upon his tightened lip a smile of fearful meaning lay;
He mused awhile—but not in doubt—no trace of doubt was there;
It was the steady solemn pause of resolute despair.
Once more he look'd upon the scroll—once more its words he read—
Then calmly, with unflinching hand, its folds before him spread.
I saw him bare his throat, and seize the blue cold-gleaming steel,
And grimly try the tempered edge he was so soon to feel!
A sickness crept upon my heart, and dizzy swam my head,—
I could not stir—I could not cry—I felt benumb'd and dead;
Black icy horrors struck me dumb, and froze my senses o'er;
I closed my eyes in utter fear, and strove to think no more.

* * * * * * *

Again I looked,—a fearful change across his face had pass'd—
He seem'd to rave,—on cheek and lip a flaky foam was cast;
He raised on high the glittering blade—then first I found a tongue—
"Hold, madman! stay thy frantic deed!" I cried, and forth I sprung;
He heard me, but he heeded not; one glance around he gave;
And ere I could arrest his hand, he had begun to SHAVE!

EATING SONG. PUNCH.

Oh! carve me yet another slice,
O help me to more gravy still,
There's naught so sure as something nice
To conquer care, or grief to kill.

I always loved a bit of beef,
When Youth and Bliss and Hope were mine;
And now it gives my heart relief
In sorrow's darksome hour—to dine!

THE SICK CHILD. [BY THE HONOBABLE WILHELMINA SKEGGS.] PUNCH.

A weakness seizes on my mind—I would more pudding take;
But all in vain—I feel—I feel—my little head will ache.
Oh! that I might alone be left, to rest where now I am,
And finish with a piece of bread that pot of currant jam.

I gaze upon the cake with tears, and wildly I deplore
That I must take a powder if I touch a morsel more,
Or oil of castor, smoothly bland, will offer'd be to me,
In wave pellucid, floating on a cup of milkless tea.

It may be so—I can not tell—I yet may do without;
They need not know, when left alone, what I have been about.
I long to eat that potted beef—to taste that apple-pie;
I long—I long to eat some more, but have not strength to try.

I gasp for breath, and now I know I've eaten far too much;
Not one more crumb of all the feast before me can I touch.
Susan, oh! Susan, ring the bell, and call for mother, dear,
My brain swims round—I feel it all—mother, your child is queer!

THE IMAGINATIVE CRISIS. PUNCH.

Oh, solitude! thou wonder-working fay,
Come nurse my feeble fancy in your arms,
Though I, and thee, and fancy town-pent lay,
Come, call around, a world of country charms.
Let all this room, these walls dissolve away,
And bring me Surrey's fields to take their place:
This floor be grass, and draughts as breezes play;
Yon curtains trees, to wave in summer's face;
My ceiling, sky; my water-jug a stream;
My bed, a bank, on which to muse and dream.
The spell is wrought: imagination swells
My sleeping-room to hills, and woods, and dells!
I walk abroad, for naught my footsteps hinder,
And fling my arms. Oh! mi! I've broke the WINDER!

LINES TO BESSY. [BY A STUDENT AT LAW.] PUNCH.

My head is like a title-deed,
Or abstract of the same:
Wherein, my Bessy, thou may'st read
Thine own long-cherish'd name.

Against thee I my suit have brought,
I am thy plaintiff lover,
And for the heart that thou hast caught,
An action lies—of trover.

Alas, upon me every day
The heaviest costs you levy:
Oh, give me back my heart—but nay!
I feel I can't replevy.

I'll love thee with my latest breath,
Alas, I can not YOU shun,
Till the hard hand of SHERIFF death
Takes me in execution.

Say, BESSY dearest, if you will
Accept me as a lover?
Must true affection file a bill
The secret to discover?

Is it my income's small amount
That leads to hesitation?
Refer the question of account
To CUPID'S arbitration.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF AN ONLY CLIENT. PUNCH.

Oh! take away my wig and gown,
Their sight is mockery now to me.
I pace my chambers up and down,
Reiterating "Where is HE?"

Alas! wild echo, with a moan,
Murmurs above my feeble head:
In the wide world I am alone;
Ha! ha! my only client's—dead!

In vain the robing-room I seek;
The very waiters scarcely bow,
Their looks contemptuously speak,
"He's lost his only client now."

E'en the mild usher, who, of yore,
Would hasten when his name I said,
To hand in motions, comes no more,
HE knows my only client's dead.

Ne'er shall I, rising up in court,
Open the pleadings of a suit:
Ne'er shall the judges cut me short
While moving them for a compute.

No more with a consenting brief
Shall I politely bow my head;
Where shall I run to hide my grief?
Alas! my only client's dead.

Imagination's magic power
Brings back, as clear, as clear as can be,
The spot, the day, the very hour,
When first I sign'd my maiden plea.

In the Exchequer's hindmost row
I sat, and some one touched my head,
He tendered ten-and-six, but oh!
That only client now is dead.

In vain I try to sing—I'm hoarse:
In vain I try to play the flute,
A phantom seems to flit across—
It is the ghost of a compute.

I try to read,—but all in vain;
My chamber listlessly I tread;
Be still, my heart; throb less, my brain;
Ho! ho! my only client's dead.

I think I hear a double knock:
I did—alas! it is a dun.
Tailor—avaunt! my sense you shock;
He's dead! you know I had but one.

What's this they thrust into my hand?
A bill returned!—ten pounds for bread!
My butcher's got a large demand;
I'm mad! my only client's dead.

LOVE ON THE OCEAN. PUNCH.

They met, 't was in a storm
On the deck of a steamer;
She spoke in language warm,
Like a sentimental dreamer.
He spoke—at least he tried;
His position he altered;
Then turned his face aside,
And his deep-ton'd voice falter'd.

She gazed upon the wave,
Sublime she declared it;
But no reply he gave—
He could not have dared it.
A breeze came from the south,
Across the billows sweeping;
His heart was in his mouth,
And out he thought 't was leaping.

"O, then, Steward!" he cried
With the deepest emotion;
Then totter'd to the side,
And leant o'er the ocean.
The world may think him cold,
But they'll pardon him with quickness,
When the fact they shall be told,
That he suffer'd from sea-sickness.

"OH! WILT THOU SEW MY BUTTONS ON?"
[Footnote: "Wilt thou love me then as now" and "I will love thee then
as now" were two popular songs in 1849]
AND
"YES, I WILL SEW THY BUTTONS ON!"
PUNCH.

[Just at present no lyrics have so eclatant a succes de societe as the charming companion ballads which, under the above pathetic titles, have made a fureur in the fashionable circles to which the fair composer, to whom they are attributed in the causeries of May Fair and Belgravia (The HON. MRS. N—T—N), belongs. The touching event to which they refer, is the romantic union of the HON. MISS BL—CHE DE F—TZ—FL—M to C—PT—N DE B—RS, of the C-DS—M G—DS, which took the beau monde by surprise last season. Previous to the eclaircissement, the gifted and lovely composer, at a ball given by the distinguished D—CH—SS of S—TH—D, accidentally overheard the searching question of the gallant but penniless Captain, and the passionate and self- devoted answer of his lovely and universally admired fiancee. She instantly rushed home and produced these pathetic and powerful ballads.]

"Oh! wilt thou sew my buttons on,
When gayer scenes recall
That fairy face, that stately grace,
To reign amid the ball?
When Fulham's bowers their sweetest flowers
For fete-champetres shall don,
Oh! say, wilt thou, of queenly brow,
Still sew my buttons on?

"The noble, sweet, are at thy feet,
To meet a freezing eye;
The gay, the great, in camp and state,
In vain around thee sigh.
Thou turn'st away, in scorn of sway,
To bless a younger son—
But when we live in lodgings, say,
Wilt sew his buttons on?"

"Yes I will sew thy buttons on,
Though all look dark and drear;
And scant, they say, lieutenant's pay,
Two hundred pounds a year.
Let HOW'LL and JAMES tempt wealthier dames,
Of gauds and gems I'll none;
Nor ask to roam, but sit at home,
And sew thy buttons on!

"When ladies blush 'neath lusters' flush,
And fast the waltzers fly,
Though tame at tea I bide with thee,
No tear shall dim my eye.
When summer's close brings Chiswick shows—
When all from town have gone,
I'll sit me down, nor pout nor frown,
But sew thy buttons on!"

THE PAID BILL
A BALLAD OF DOMESTIC ECONOMY.
PUNCH
O fling not this receipt away,
Given by one who trusted thee;
Mistakes will happen every day
However honest folks may be.
And sad it is, love, twice to pay;
So cast not that receipt away!

Ah, yes; if e'er, in future hours,
When we this bill have all forgot,
They send it in again—ye powers!
And swear that we have paid it not—
How sweet to know, on such a day
We've never cast receipts away!

PARODY FOR A REFORMED PARLIAMENT. PUNCH.

The quality of bribery is deep stained;
It droppeth from a hand behind the door
Into the voter's palm. It is
twice dirty:
It dirts both him that gives, and him that takes.
'Tis basest in the basest, and becomes
Low blacklegs more than servants of the Crown.
Those swindlers show the force of venal power,
The attribute to trick and roguery,
Whereby 'tis managed that a bad horse wins:
But bribery is below their knavish "lay."
It is the vilest of dishonest things;
It was the attribute to Gatton's self;
And other boroughs most like Gatton show
When bribery smothers conscience. Therefore, you,
Whose conscience takes the fee, consider this—
That in the cause of just reform, you all
Should lose your franchise: we do dislike bribery;
And that dislike doth cause us to object to
The deeds of W. B.

THE WAITER. PUNCH.

I met the waiter in his prime
At a magnificent hotel;
His hair, untinged by care or time,
Was oiled and brushed exceeding well.
When "waiter," was the impatient cry,
In accents growing stronger,
He seem'd to murmur "By and by,
Wait a little longer."

Within a year we met once more,
'Twas in another part of town—
An humbler air the waiter wore,
I fancied he was going down.
Still, when I shouted "Waiter, bread!"
He came out rather stronger,
As if he'd say with toss of head,
"Wait a little longer."

Time takes us on through many a grace;
Of "ups and downs" I've had my run,
Passing full often through the shade
And sometimes loitering in the sun.
I and the waiter met again
At a small inn at Ongar;
Still, when I call'd, 't was almost vain—
He bade me wait the longer.

Another time—years since the last—
At eating-house I sought relief
From present care and troubles past,
In a small plate of round of beef.
"One beef, and taturs," was the cry,
In tones than mine much stronger;
'T was the old waiter standing by,
"Waiting a little longer."

I've marked him now for many a year;
I've seen his coat more rusty grow;
His linen is less bright and clear,
His polished pumps are on the go.
Torn are, alas! his Berlin gloves—
They used to be much stronger,
The waiter's whole appearance proves
He can not wait much longer.

I sometimes see the waiter still;
'Gainst want he wages feeble strife;
He's at the bottom of the hill,
Downward has been his path through life.
Of "waiter, waiter," there are cries,
Which louder grow and stronger;
'Tis to old Time he now replies,
"Wait a little longer."

[Illustration: Oliver Wendell Holmes]

THE LAST APPENDIX TO "YANKEE DOODLE." PUNCH, 1851.

YANKEE DOODLE sent to Town
His goods for exhibition;
Every body ran him down,
And laugh'd at his position.
They thought him all the world behind;
A goney, muff, or noodle;
Laugh on, good people—never mind—
Says quiet YANKEE DOODLE.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

YANKEE DOODLE had a craft,
A rather tidy clipper,
And he challenged, while they laughed,
The Britishers to whip her.
Their whole yacht-squadron she outsped,
And that on their own water;
Of all the lot she went a-head,
And they came nowhere arter.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

O'er Panama there was a scheme
Long talk'd of, to pursue a
Short route—which many thought a dream—
By Lake Nicaragua.
JOHN BULL discussed the plan on foot,
With slow irresolution,
While YANKEE DOODLE went and put
It into execution.

Chorus.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

A steamer of the COLLINS line,
A YANKEE DOODLE'S notion,
Has also quickest cut the brine
Across the Atlantic Ocean.
And British agents, no ways slow
Her merits to discover,
Have been and bought her—just to tow
The CUNARD packets over.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

Your gunsmiths of their skill may crack,
But that again don't mention:
I guess that COLTS' revolvers whack
Their very first invention.
By YANKEE DOODLE, too, you're beat
Downright in Agriculture,
With his machine for reaping wheat,
Chaw'd up as by a vulture.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

You also fancied, in your pride,
Which truly is tarnation,
Them British locks of yourn defied
The rogues of all creation;
But CHUBBS' and BRAMAH'S HOBBS has pick'd,
And you must now be view'd all
As having been completely licked
By glorious YANKEE DOODLE.

CHORUS.—YANKEE DOODLE, etc.

LINES FOR MUSIC. PUNCH.

Come strike me the harp with its soul-stirring twang,
The drum shall reply with its hollowest bang;
Up, up in the air with the light tamborine,
And let the dull ophecleide's groan intervene;
For such is our life, lads, a chaos of sounds,
Through which the gay traveler actively bounds.
With the voice of the public the statesman must chime,
And change the key-note, boys, exactly in time;
The lawyer will coolly his client survey,
As an instrument merely whereon he can play.
Then harp, drum, and cymbals together shall clang,
With a loud-tooral lira, right tooral, bang, bang!

DRAMA FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE. LUDGATE HILL.—A MYSTERY. PUNCH.

MR. MEADOWS . . . . A Country Gentleman.
PRIGWELL . . . . . With a heavy heart and light fingers.
BROWN . . . . . . . Friends of each other.
JONES . . . . . . . Friends of each other.
BLIND VOCALIST . . Who will attempt the song of "Hey
the Bonny Breast Knot."

The Scene represents Ludgate Hill in the middle of the day;
Passengers, Omnibuses, etc., etc., passing to and fro.

MEADOWS enters, musing.

MEADOWS. I stand at last on Ludgate's famous hill;
I've traversed Farringdon's frequented vale,
I've quitted Holborn's heights—the slopes of Snow,
Where Skinner's sinuous street, with tortuous track,
Trepans the traveler toward the field of Smith;
That field, whose scents burst on the offended nose
With foulest flavor, while the thrice shocked ear,
Thrice shocked with bellowing blasphemy and blows,
Making one compound of Satanic sound,
Is stunned, in physical and moral sense.
But this is Ludgate Hill—here commerce thrives;
Here, merchants carry trade to such a height
That competition, bursting builders' bonds,
Starts from the shop, and rushing through the roof,
Unites the basement with the floors above;
Till, like a giant, that outgrows his strength,
The whole concern, struck with abrupt collapse,
In one "tremendous failure" totters down!—
'Tis food on which philosophy may fatten.
[Turns round, musing, and looks into a shop window

Enter PRIGWELL, talking to himself.

PRIGWELL. I've made a sorry day of it thus far;
I've fathomed fifty pockets, all in vain;
I've spent in omnibuses half-a-crown;
I've ransacked forty female reticules—
And nothing found—some business must be done.
By Jove—I'd rather turn Lascar at once:
Allow the walnut's devastating juice
To track its inky course along my cheek,
And stain my British brow with Indian brown.
Or, failing that, I'd rather drape myself
In cheap white cotton, or gay colored chintz—
Hang roung my ear the massive curtain-ring—
With strings of bold, effective glassy beads
Circle my neck—and play the Brahmin Priest,
To win the sympathy of passing crowds,
And melt the silver in the stranger's purse.
But ah! (SEEING MEADOWS) the land of promise looms before me
The bulging skirts of that provincial coat
Tell tales of well-filled pocket-books within.
[Goes behind Meadows and empties his pockets

This is indeed a prize!
[Meadows turns suddenly round,

Your pardon, sir;
Is this, the way to Newgate?

MEADOWS. Why, indeed
I scarce can say; I'm but a stranger here,
I should not like to misdirect you.

PRIGWELL. Thank you,
I'll find the way to Newgate by myself.
[Exit.

MEADOWS (STILL MUSING). This is indeed a great Metropolis.

ENTER BLIND VOCALIST.

BLIND VOCALIST (SINGING). Hey, the bonny! (KNOCKS UP AGAINST MEADOWS,
WHO EXIT). Ho! the bonny—(A PASSENGER KNOCKS UP AGAINST THE BLIND
VOCALIST ON THE OTHER SIDE). Hey, the bonny—(A BUTCHER'S TRAY STRIKES
THE BLIND VOCALIST IN THE CHEST)—breast knot. AS HE CONTINUES SINGING
"HEY, THE BONNY! HO, THE BONNY," THE BLIND VOCALIST ENCOUNTERS VARIOUS
COLLISIONS, AND HIS BREATH BEING TAKEN AWAY BY A POKE OR A PUSH
BETWEEN EACH BAR, HE IS CARRIED AWAY BY THE STREAM OF PASSENGERS.

ENTER BROWN AND JONES. MEETING, THEY STOP AND SHAKE HANDS MOST CORDIALLY FOR SEVERAL MINUTES.

BROWN. How are you, JONES?

JONES. Why, BROWN, I do declare
'Tis quite an age since you and I have met.

BROWN. I'm quite delighted.

JONES. I'm extremely glad.
[An awkward pause

BROWN. Well! and how are you?

JONES. Thank you, very well;
And you, I hope are well?

BROWN. Quite well, I thank you.
[Another awkward pause.

JONES. Oh!—by the way—have you seen THOMSON lately?

BROWN. Not very lately. (After a pause, and as if struck with a happy idea). But I met with SMITH— A week ago.

JONES. Oh! did you though, indeed?
And how was SMITH?

Brown. Why, he seemed pretty well [Another long pause; at the end of which both appear as if they were going to speak to each other.

JONES. I beg your pardon.

SMITH. You were going to speak?

JONES. Oh! nothing. I was only going to say—
Good morning.

SMITH. Oh! and so was I. Good-day.
[Both shake hands, and are going off in opposite directions,
when Smith turns round. Jones turning round at the same
time they both return and look at each other.

JONES. I thought you wished to speak, by looking back.

BROWN. Oh no. I thought the same.

BOTH TOGETHER. Good-by! Good-by! [Exeunt finally; and the conversation and the curtain drop together.

PROCLIVIOR.
(A slight Variation on LONGFELLOW'S "EXCELSIOR.")
PUNCH.

The shades of night were falling fast,
As tow'rd the Haymarket there pass'd
A youth, whose look told in a trice
That his taste chose the queer device—
PROCLIVIOR!

His hat, a wide-awake; beneath
He tapp'd a cane against his teeth;
His eye was bloodshot, and there rung,
Midst scraps of slang, in unknown tongue,
PROCLIVIOR!

In calm first-floors he saw the light
Of circles cosy for the night;
But far ahead the gas-lamps glow;
He turn'd his head, and murmur'd "Slow,"
PROCLIVIOR!

"Come early home," his Uncle said,
"We all are early off to bed;
The family blame you far and wide;"
But loud that noisy youth replied—
PROCLIVIOR!

"Stay," said his Aunt, "come home to sup,
Early retire—get early up."
A wink half quivered in his eye;
He answered to the old dame's sigh—
PROCLIVIOR!

"Mind how you meddle with that lamp!
And mind the pavement, for it's damp!"
Such was the Peeler's last good-night
A faint voice stutter'd out "All right."
PROCLIVIOR!

At break of day, as far West-ward
A cab roll'd o'er the highways hard,
The early mover stopp'd to stare
At the wild shouting of the fare—
PROCLIVIOR!

And by the bailiff's faithful hound,
At breakfast-time, a youth was found,
Upon three chairs, with aspect nice,
True to his young life's queer device,
PROCLIVIOR!

Thence, on a dull and muggy day,
They bore him to the Bench away,
And there for several months he lay,
While friends speak gravely as they say—
PROCLIVIOR!

JONES AT THE BARBER'S SHOP. PUNCH.

SCENE.—A Barber's Shop. Barber's men engaged in cutting hair, making wigs, and other barberesque operations.

Enter JONES, meeting OILY the barber.

JONES. I wish my hair cut.

OILY. Pray, sir, take a seat.

OILY puts a chair for JONES, who sits. During the following dialogue
OILY continues cutting JONES'S hair.

OILY. We've had much wet, sir.

JONES. Very much, indeed.

OILY. And yet November's early days were fine.

JONES. They were.

OILY. I hoped fair weather might have lasted us
Until the end.

JONES. At one time—so did I.

OILY. But we have had it very wet.

JONES. We have.

[A pause of some minutes.

OILY. I know not, sir, who cut your hair last time;
But this I say, sir, it was badly cut:
No doubt 't was in the country.

JONES. No! in town!

OILY. Indeed! I should have fancied otherwise.

JONES. 'Twas cut in town—and in this very room.

OILY. Amazement!—but I now remember well.
We had an awkward, new provincial hand,
A fellow from the country. Sir, he did
More damage to my business in a week
Than all my skill can in a year repair.
He must have cut your hair.

JONES (looking at him). No—'twas yourself.

OILY. Myself! Impossible! You must mistake.

JONES. I don't mistake—'twas you that cut my hair.

[A long pause, interrupted only by the clipping of the scissors.

OILY. Your hair is very dry, sir.

JONES. Oh! indeed.

OILY. Our Vegetable Extract moistens it.

JONES. I like it dry.

OILY. But, sir, the hair when dry.

Turns quickly gray.

JONES. That color I prefer,

OILY. But hair, when gray, will rapidly fall off,
And baldness will ensue.

JONES. I would be bald.

OILY. Perhaps you mean to say you'd like a wig.—
We've wigs so natural they can't be told
From real hair.

JONES. Deception I detest.

[Another pause ensues, during which OILY blows down JONES'S neck, and relieves him from the linen wrapper in which he has been enveloped during the process of hair-cutting.

OILY. We've brushes, soaps, and scent, of every kind.

JONES. I see you have. (Pays 6d.) I think you'll find that
right.
OILY. If there is nothing I can show you, sir,

JONES. No: nothing. Yet—there may be something, too,
That you may show me.

OILY. Name it, sir.

JONES. The door.

[EXIT JONES.
OILY (to his man). That's a rum customer at any rate.
Had I cut him as short as he cut me,
How little hair upon his head would be!
But if kind friends will all our pains requite,
We'll hope for better luck another night.

[Shop-bell rings and curtain falls.

THE SATED ONE. [IMPROMPTU AFTER CHRISTMAS DINNER.] PUNCH.

It may not be—go maidens, go,
Nor tempt me to the mistletoe;
I once could dance beneath its bough,
But must not, will not, can not, now!

A weight—a load within I bear;
It is not madness nor despair;
But I require to be at rest,
So that my burden may-digest!

SAPPHICS OF THE CABSTAND
[Footnote: See The Friend of Humanity and the Knife-Grinder]
PUNCH.

FRIEND OF SELF-GOVERNMENT.

Seedy Cab-driver, whither art thou going?
Sad is thy fate—reduced to law and order,
Local self-government yielding to the gripe of
Centralization.

Victim of FITZROY! little think the M.P.s,
Lording it o'er cab, 'bus, lodging-house, and grave-yard,
Of the good times when every Anglo Saxon's
House was his castle.

Say, hapless sufferer, was it Mr. CHADWICK—
Underground foe to the British Constitution—
Or my LORD SHAFTESBURY, put up MR. FITZROY
Thus to assail you?

Was it the growth of Continental notions,
Or was it the Metropolitan police-force
Prompted this blow at Laissez-faire, that free and
Easiest of doctrines?

Have you not read Mr. TOULMIN SMITH'S great work on
Centralization? If you haven't, buy it;
Meanwhile I should be glad at once to hear your
View on the subject.

CAB-DRIVER.

View on the subject? jiggered if I've got one;
Only I wants no centrylisin', I don't—
Which I suppose it's a crusher standin' sentry
Hover a cabstand.

Whereby if we gives e'er a word o' cheek to
Parties as rides, they pulls us up like winkin'—
And them there blessed beaks is down upon us
Dead as an 'ammer!
As for Mr. TOULMIN SMITH, can't say I knows him—
But as you talks so werry like a gem'man,
Perhaps you're goin in 'ansome style to stand a
Shillin' a mile, sir?

FRIEND OF SELF—GOVERNMENT.

I give a shilling? I will see thee hanged first—
Sixpence a mile—or drive me straight to Bow-street—
Idle, ill-mannered, dissipated, dirty,
Insolent rascal!

JUSTICE TO SCOTLAND.
[Footnote: In this poem the Scottish words and phrases are all
ludicrously misapplied]
[AN UNPUBLISHED POEM BY BURNS.]
COMMUNICATED BY THE EDINBURG SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CIVILIZATION IN
ENGLAND
PUNCH.

O mickle yeuks the keckle doup,
An' a' unsicker girns the graith,
For wae and wae the crowdies loup
O'er jouk an' hallan, braw an' baith.
Where ance the coggie hirpled fair,
And blithesome poortith toomed the loof
There's nae a burnie giglet rare
But blaws in ilka jinking coof.

The routhie bield that gars the gear
Is gone where glint the pawky een.
And aye the stound is birkin lear
Where sconnered yowies wheepen yestreen.
The creeshie rax wi' skelpin' kaes
Nae mair the howdie bicker whangs,
Nor weanies in their wee bit claes
Glour light as lammies wi' their sangs.

Yet leeze me on my bonnie byke!
My drappie aiblins blinks the noo,
An' leesome luve has lapt the dyke
Forgatherin' just a wee bit fou.
And SCOTIA! while thy rantin' lunt
Is mirk and moop with gowans fine,
I'll stowlins pit my unco brunt,
An' cleek my duds for auld lang syne.

THE POETICAL COOKERY-BOOK.
PUNCH
THE STEAK.
Air.—"The Sea."

Of Steak—of Steak—of prime Rump Steak—
A slice of half-inch thickness take,
Without a blemish, soft and sound;
In weight a little more than a pound.
Who'd cook a Stake—who'd cook a Steak—
Must a fire clear proceed to make:
With the red above and the red below,
In one delicious genial glow.
If a coal should come, a blaze to make,
Have patience! You mustn't put on your Steak.

First rub—yes, rub—with suet fat,
The gridiron's bars, then on it flat
Impose the meat; and the fire soon
Will make it sing a delicious tune.
And when 'tis brown'd by the genial glow,
Just turn the upper side below.
Both sides with brown being cover'd o'er,
For a moment you broil your Steak no more,
But on a hot dish let it rest,
And add of butter a slice of the best;
In a minute or two the pepper-box take,
And with it gently dredge your Steak.

When seasoned quite, upon the fire
Some further time it will require;
And over and over be sure to turn
Your Steak till done—nor let it burn;
For nothing drives me half so wild
As a nice Rump Steak in the cooking spiled.
I've lived in pleasure mixed with grief,
On fish and fowl, and mutton and beef,
With plenty of cash, and power to range,
But my Steak I never wished to change:
For a Steak was always a treat to me,
At breakfast, luncheon, dinner, or tea.

ROASTED SUCKING-PIG.
AIR—"Scots wha has."

Cooks who'd roast a Sucking-pig,
Purchase one not over big;
Coarse ones are not worth a fig;
So a young one buy.
See that he is scalded well
(That is done by those who sell),
Therefore on that point to dwell,
Were absurdity.

Sage and bread, mix just enough,
Salt and pepper quantum suff.,
And the Pig's interior stuff,
With the whole combined.
To a fire that's rather high,
Lay it till completely dry;
Then to every part apply
Cloth, with butter lined.

Dredge with flour o'er and o'er,
Till the Pig will hold no more;
Then do nothing else before
'Tis for serving fit.
Then scrape off the flour with care;
Then a butter'd cloth prepare;
Rub it well; then cut—not tear—
Off the head of it.

Then take out and mix the brains
With the gravy it contains;
While it on the spit remains,
Cut the Pig in two.
Chop the sage, and chop the bread
Fine as very finest shred;
O'er it melted butter spread—
Stinginess won't do.

When it in the dish appears,
Garnish with the jaws and ears;
And when dinner-hour nears,
Ready let it be.
Who can offer such a dish
May dispense with fowl and fish;
And if he a guest should wish,
Let him send for me!

BEIGNET DE POMME.
AIR—"Home, Sweet Home."

'Mid fritters and lollipops though we may roam,
On the whole, there is nothing like Beignet de Pomme.
Of flour a pound, with a glass of milk share,
And a half pound of butter the mixture will bear.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

A Beignet de Pomme, you will work at in vain,
If you stir not the mixture again and again;
Some beer, just to thin it, may into it fall;
Stir up that, with three whites of eggs, added to all.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

Six apples, when peeled, you must carefully slice,
And cut out the cores—if you 'll take my advice;
Then dip them in batter, and fry till they foam,
And you'll have in six minutes your Beignet de Pomme.
Pomme! Pomme! Beignet de Pomme!
Of Beignets there's none like the Beignet de Pomme!

CHERRY PIE.
AIR—"Cherry Ripe."

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Kentish cherries you may buy.
If so be you ask me where
To put the fruit, I'll answer "There!"
In the dish your fruit must lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.

Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! Pie! I cry,
Full and fair ones mind you buy
Whereabouts the crust should go,
Any fool, of course will know;
In the midst a cup may lie,
When you make your Cherry Pie.
Cherry Pie! Cherry Pie! etc.

DEVILED BISCUIT.
AIR—"A Temple of Friendship."

"A nice Devil'd Biscuit," said JENKINS enchanted,
"I'll have after dinner—the thought is divine!"
The biscuit was bought, and he now only wanted—
To fully enjoy it—a glass of good wine.
He flew to the pepper, and sat down before it,
And at peppering the well-butter'd biscuit he went;
Then, some cheese in a paste mix'd with mustard spread o'er it
And down to be grill'd to the kitchen 'twas sent.

"Oh! how," said the Cook, "can I this think of grilling,
When common the pepper? the whole will be flat.
But here's the Cayenne; if my master is willing,
I'll make, if he pleases, a devil with that."
So the Footman ran up with the Cook's observation
To JENKINS, who gave him a terrible look:
"Oh, go to the devil!" forgetting his station,
Was the answer that JENKINS sent down to the Cook.

RED HERRINGS.
AIR—"Meet Me By Moonlight."

Meet me at breakfast alone,
And then I will give you a dish
Which really deserves to be known,
Though it's not the genteelest of fish.
You must promise to come, for I said
A splendid Red Herring I'd buy—
Nay, turn not away your proud head;
You'll like it, I know, when you try.

If moisture the Herring betray,
Drain, till from moisture 'tis free;
Warm it through in the usual way,
Then serve it for you and for me.
A piece of cold butter prepare,
To rub it when ready it lies;
Egg-sauce and potatoes don't spare,
And the flavor will cause you surprise

IRISH STEW.
AIR—"Happy Land."

Irish stew, Irish stew!
Whatever else my dinner be,
Once again, once again,
I'd have a dish of thee.

Mutton chops, and onion slice,
Let the water cover,
With potatoes, fresh and nice;
Boil, but not quite over,
Irish stew, Irish stew!
Ne'er from thee, my taste will stray.
I could eat
Such a treat
Nearly every day.
La, la, la, la!

BARLEY BROTH.
Air—"The King, God bless him!"

A basin of Barley Broth make, make for me;
Give those who prefer it, the plain:
No matter the broth, so of barley it be,
If we ne'er taste a basin again.
For, oh I when three pounds of good mutton you buy,
And of most of its fat dispossess it,
In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
In a stewpan uncover'd, at first, let it lie;
Then in water proceed to dress it.

What a teacup will hold—you should first have been told—
Of barley you gently should boil;
The pearl-barley choose—'tis the nicest that's sold—
All others the mixture might spoil.
Of carrots and turnips, small onions, green peas
(If the price of the last don't distress one),
Mix plenty; and boil altogether with these
Your basin of Broth when you dress one.
Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!
Two hours together the articles boil;
There's your basin of Broth, if you'd dress one.

CALF'S HEART.
Air—"Maid of Athens, ere we part."

Maid of all work, as a part
Of my dinner, cook a heart;
Or, since such a dish is best,
Give me that, and leave the rest.
Take my orders, ere I go;
Heart of calf we'll cook thee so.

Buy—to price you're not confined—
Such a heart as suits your mind:
Buy some suet—and enough
Of the herbs required to stuff;
Buy some le non-peel—and, oh!
Heart of calf, we'll fill thee so.

Buy some onions—just a taste—
Buy enough, but not to waste;
Buy two eggs of slender shell
Mix, and stir the mixture well;
Crumbs of bread among it throw;
Heart of calf we'll roast thee so.
Maid of all work, when 'tis done,
Serve it up to me alone:
Rich brown gravy round it roll,
Marred by no intruding coal;
Currant jelly add—and lo!
Heart of calf, I'll eat thee so.

THE CHRISTMAS PUDDING.
AIR—"Jeannette and Jeannott."

If you wish to make a pudding in which every one delights,
Of a dozen new-laid eggs you must take the yolks and whites;
Beat them well up in a basin till they thoroughly combine,
And shred and chop some suet particularly fine;

Take a pound of well-stoned raisins, and a pound of currants dried,
A pound of pounded sugar, and a pound of peel beside;
Stir them all well up together with a pound of wheaten flour,
And let them stand and settle for a quarter of an hour;

Then tie the pudding in a cloth, and put it in the pot,—
Some people like the water cold, and some prefer it hot;
But though I don't know which of these two methods I should praise,
I know it ought to boil an hour for every pound it weighs.

Oh! if I were Queen of France, or, still better, Pope of Rome,
I'd have a Christmas pudding every day I dined at home;
And as for other puddings whatever they might be,
Why those who like the nasty things should eat them all for me.

APPLE PIE.
AIR-"All that's bright must fade."

All new dishes fade—
The newest oft the fleetest;
Of all the pies now made,
The Apple's still the sweetest;
Cut and come again,
The syrup upward springing!
While my life and taste remain,
To thee my heart is clinging.
Other dainties fade—
The newest oft the fleetest;
But of all the pies now made,
The Apple's still the sweetest.

Who absurdly buys
Fruit not worth the baking?
Who wastes crust on pies
That do not pay for making?
Better far to be
An Apple Tartlet buying,
Than to make one at home, and see
On it there's no relying:
That all must be weigh'd,
When thyself thou treatest—
Still a pie home-made
Is, after all, the sweetest.

Who a pie would make,
First his apple slices;
Then he ought to take
Some cloves—the best of spices:
Grate some lemon rind,
Butter add discreetly;
Then some sugar mix—but mind
The pie's not made too sweetly.
Every pie that's made
With sugar, is completest;
But moderation should pervade—
Too sweet is not the sweetest.

Who would tone impart,
Must—if my word is trusted—
Add to his pie or tart
A glass of port—old crusted
If a man of taste,
He, complete to make it,
In the very finest paste
Will inclose and bake it.
Pies have each their grade;
But, when this thou eatest,
Of all that e'er were made,
You'll say 'tis best and sweetest.

LOBSTER SALAD.
AIR-"Blue Bonnets Over The Border."

Take, take, lobsters and lettuces;
Mind that they send you the fish that you order:
Take, take, a decent-sized salad bowl,
One that's sufficiently deep in the border.
Cut into many a slice
All of the fish that's nice,
Place in the bowl with due neatness and order:
Then hard-boil'd eggs you may
Add in a neat array
All round the bowl, just by way of a border.

Take from the cellar of salt a proportion:
Take from the castors both pepper and oil,
With vinegar, too—but a moderate portion—
Too much of acid your salad will spoil.
Mix them together,
You need not mind whether
You blend them exactly in apple-pie order;
But when you've stirr'd away,
Mix up the whole you may—
All but the eggs, which are used as a border.

Take, take, plenty of seasoning;
A teaspoon of parsley that's chopp'd in small pieces:
Though, though, the point will bear reasoning,
A small taste of onion the flavor increases.
As the sauce curdle may,
Should it: the process stay,
Patiently do it again in due order;
For, if you chance to spoil
Vinegar, eggs, and oil,
Still to proceed would on lunacy border.

STEWED STEAK
AIR—"Had I a Heart for Falsehood Framed."

Had I pound of tender Steak,
I'd use it for a stew;
And if the dish you would partake,
I'll tell you what to do.
Into a stew-pan, clean and neat,
Some butter should be flung:
And with it stew your pound of meat,
A tender piece—but young.

And when you find the juice express'd
By culinary art,
To draw the gravy off, were best,
And let it stand apart.
Then, lady, if you'd have a treat,
Be sure you can't be wrong
To put more butter to your meat,
Nor let it stew too long.

And when the steak is nicely done,
To take it off were best;
And gently let it fry alone,
Without the sauce or zest;
Then add the gravy—with of wine
A spoonful in it flung;
And a shalot cut very fine—
Let the shalot be young.

And when the whole has been combined,
More stewing 't will require;
Ten minutes will suffice—but mind
Don't have too quick a fire.
Then serve it up—'t will form a treat!
Nor fear you've cook'd it wrong;
GOURMETS in all the old 't will meet,
And GOURMANDS in the young.

GREEN PEA SOUP.
AIR—"The Ivy Green."
Oh! a splendid Soup is the true Pea Green
I for it often call;
And up it comes in a smart tureen,
When I dine in my banquet hall.
When a leg of mutton at home is boil'd,
The liquor I always keep,
And in that liquor (before 'tis spoil'd)
A peck of peas I steep.
When boil'd till tender they have been,
I rub through a sieve the peas so green.

Though the trouble the indolent may shock,
I rub with all my power;
And having return'd them to the stock,
I stew them for more than an hour;
Then of younger peas I take some more,
The mixture to improve,
Thrown in a little time before
The soup from the fire I move.
Then seldom a better soup is seen,
Than the old familiar soup Pea Green.

Since first I began my household career, How many my dishes have been!
But the one that digestion never need fear,
Is the simple old soup Pea Green.
The giblet may tire, the gravy pall,
And the turtle lose its charm;
But the Green Pea triumphs over them all,
And does not the slightest harm.
Smoking hot in a smart tureen,
A rare soup is the true Pea Green!

TRIFLE.
AIR—"The Meeting of the Waters."

There's not in the wide world so tempting a sweet
As that Trifle where custard and macaroons meet;
Oh! the latest sweet tooth from my head must depart
Ere the taste of that Trifle shall not win my heart.

Yet it is not the sugar that's thrown in between,
Nor the peel of the lemon so candied and green;
'Tis not the rich cream that's whipp'd up by a mill:
Oh, no! it is something more exquisite still.

'Tis that nice macaroons in the dish I have laid,
Of which a delicious foundation is made;
And you'll find how the last will in flavor improve,
When soak'd with the wine that you pour in above.

Sweet PLATEAU of Trifle! how great is my zest
For thee, when spread o'er with the jam I love best,
When the cream white of eggs—to be over thee thrown,
With a whisk kept on purpose—is mingled in one!

MUTTON CHOPS.
AIR—"Come dwell with me."

Come dine with me, come dine with me,
And our dish shall be, our dish shall be,
A Mutton Chop from the butcher's shop—
And how I cook it you shall see.
The Chop I choose is not too lean;
For to cut off the fat I mean.
Then to the fire I put it down,
And let it fry until 'tis brown.
Come dine with me; yes, dine with me, etc.

I'll fry some bread cut rather fine,
To place betwixt each chop of mine;
Some spinach, or some cauliflowers,
May ornament this dish of ours.
I will not let thee once repine
At having come with me to dine:
'T will be my pride to hear thee say,
"I have enjoy'd my Chop, to-day."
Come, dine with me; yes, dine with me;
Dine, dine, dine, with me, etc.

BARLEY WATER.
AIR—"On the Banks of Allan Water."

For a jug of Barley Water
Take a saucepan not too small;
Give it to your wife or daughter,
If within your call.
If her duty you have taught her,
Very willing each will be
To prepare some Barley Water
Cheerfully for thee.

For a jug of Barley Water,
Half a gallon, less or more,
From the filter that you bought her,
Ask your wife to pour.
When a saucepan you have brought her
Polish'd bright as bright can be,
In it empty all the water,
Either you or she.

For your jug of Barley Water
('Tis a drink by no means bad),
Some two ounces and a quarter
Of pearl barley add.
When 'tis boiling, let your daughter
Skim from blacks to keep it free;
Added to your Barley Water
Lemon rind should be.

For your jug of Barley Water
(I have made it very oft),
It must boil, so tell your daughter,
Till the barley's soft.
Juice of a small lemon's quarter
Add; then sweeten all like tea;
Strain through sieve your Barley Water—
'Twill delicious be.

BOILED CHICKEN.
AIR—"Norah Creina."

Lesbia hath a fowl to cook;
But, being anxious not to spoil it,
Searches anxiously our book,
For how to roast, and how to boil it.
Sweet it is to dine upon—
Quite alone, when small its size is;—
And, when cleverly 'tis done,
Its delicacy quite surprises. Oh! my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender Chicken;
I can wish
No other dish,
With thee supplied, my tender Chicken!

Lesbia, take some water cold,
And having on the fire placed it,
And some butter, and be bold—
When 'tis hot enough—taste it.
Oh! the Chicken meant for me
Boil before the fire grows dimmer,
Twenty minutes let it be
In the saucepan left to simmer.
Oh, my tender Chicken dear!
My boil'd, delicious, tender Chicken!
Rub the breast
(To give a zest)
With lemon-juice, my tender Chicken.

Lesbia hath with sauce combined
Broccoli white, without a tarnish;
'Tis hard to tell if 'tis design'd
For vegetable or for garnish.
Pillow'd on a butter'd dish,
My Chicken temptingly reposes,
Making gourmands for it wish,
Should the savor reach their noses.
Oh, my tender pullet dear!
My boiled—not roasted—tender Chicken
Day or night,
Thy meal is light,
For supper, e'en, my tender Chicken.

STEWED DUCK AND PEAS.
AIR—"My Heart and Lute."

I give thee all, I can no more,
Though poor the dinner be;
Stew'd Duck and Peas are all the store
That I can offer thee.
A Duck, whose tender breast reveals
Its early youth full well;
And better still, a Pea that peels
From fresh transparent shell.

Though Duck and Peas may fail, alas!
One's hunger to allay;
At least for luncheon they may pass,
The appetite to stay,
If seasoned Duck an odor bring
From which one would abstain,
The Peas, like fragrant breath of Spring,
Set all to rights again.

I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I'll tell thee how 'tis cook'd, before
You come to dine with me:
The Duck is truss'd from head to heels,
Then stew'd with butter well;
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell

When Duck and Bacon in a mass
You in the stew-pan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away:
A table-spoon of flour bring, A quart of water bring,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.

A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever-verdant bay,
Two cloves—I make my language brief—
Then add your Peas you may!
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain,
Then take your Duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.

The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your Duck—the sauce improve
In the accustom'd way,
With pepper, salt, and other things,
I need not here explain:
And, if the dish contentment brings,
You'll dine with me again.

CURRY.

Three pounds of veal my darling girl prepares,
And chops it nicely into little squares;
Five onions next prepares the little minx
(The biggest are the best her Samiwel thinks).
And Epping butter, nearly half a pound,
And stews them in a pan until they're brown'd.

What's next my dexterous little girl will do?
She pops the meat into the savory stew,
With curry powder, table-spoonfulls three,
And milk a pint (the richest that may be);

And, when the dish has stewed for half-an-hour,
A lemon's ready juice she'll o'er it pour:
Then, bless her! then she gives the luscious pot
A very gentle boil—and serves quite hot.

P.S. Beef, mutton, rabbit, if you wish;
Lobsters, or prawns, or any kind of fish
Are fit to make A CURRY. 'Tis, when done,
A dish for emperors to feed upon.

THE RAILWAY GILPIN. PUNCH.

JOHN GILPIN is a citizen;
For lineage of renown,
The famed JOHN GILPIN'S grandson, he
Abides in London town.

To our JOHN GILPIN said his dear,
"Stewed up here as we've been
Since Whitsuntide, 'tis time that we
Should have a change of scene.

"To-morrew is a leisure day,
And we'll by rail repair
Unto the Nell at Dedmanton,
And take a breath of air.

"My sister takes our eldest child;
The youngest of our three
Will go in arms, and so the ride
Won't so expensive be."

JOHN soon replied, "I don't admire
That railway, I, for one;
But you know best, my dearest dear
And so it must be done.

"I, as a linen-draper bold,
Will bear myself, and though
'Tis Friday by the calendar,
Will risk my limbs, and go."

Quoth MISTRESS GILPIN, "Nicely said:
And then, besides, look here,
We'll go by the Excursion Train,
Which makes it still less dear."

JOHN GILPIN poked his clever wife,
And slightly smiled to find
That though on peril she was bent,
She had a careful mind.

The morning came; a cab was sought:
The proper time allow'd
To reach the station door; but lo!
Before it stood a crowd.

For half an hour they there were stay'd,
And when they did get in—
"No train! a hoax!" cried clerks, agog
To swear through thick and thin.

"Yea!" went the throats; stamp went the heels
Were never folks so mad,
The disappointment dire beneath;
All cried "it was too bad!"

JOHN GILPIN home would fain have hied,
But he must needs remain,
Commanded by his willful bride,
And take the usual train.

'T was long before our passengers
Another train could find,
When—stop! one ticket for the fares
Was lost or left behind!

"Good lack!" quoth JOHN, "yet try it on."
"'T won't do," the Guard replies;
And bearing wife and babes on board,
The train without him flies.

Now see him in a second train,
Behind the iron steed,
Borne on, slap dash-for life or bones
With small concern or heed.

Away went GILPIN, neck or naught,
Exclaiming, "Dash my wig!
Oh, here's a game! oh, here's a go!
A running such a rig!"

A signal, hark!—the whistle screamed—
Smash! went the windows all:
"An accident!" cried out each one,
As loud as he could bawl.

Away went GILPIN, never mind—
His brain seemed spinning round;
Thought he, "This speed a killing pace
Will prove, I'll bet a pound !"

And still, as stations they drew near,
The whistle shrilly blew,
And in a trice, past signal-men,
The train like lightning flew.
Thus, all through merry Killbury,
Without a stop shot they;
But paused, to 'scape a second smash,
At Dedmanton so gay.

At Dedmanton his loving wife,
On platform waiting, spied
Her tender husband, striving much
To let himself outside.

"Hallo! JOHN GILPIN, here we are—
Come out!" they all did cry;
"To death with waiting we are tired!"
"Guard!" shouted GILPIN, "Hi!"

But no—the train was not a bit
Arranged to tarry there,
For why?—because 't was an Express,
And did dispatches bear.

So, in a second, off it flew
Again, and dashed along,
As if the deuce't were going to,
With motive impulse strong.

Away went GILPIN, on the breath
Of puffing steam, until
They came unto their journey's end,
Where they at last stood still

And then—best thing that he could do—
He book'd himself for Town;
They stopped at every station up,
Till he again got down.

Says GILPIN, "Sing, Long live the QUEEN,
And eke long life to me;
And ere I'll trust that Line again,
Myself I blest will see!"

ELEGY.
WRITTEN IN A RAIL WAY STATION.
PUNCH.
The Station clock proclaims the close of day;
The hard-worked clerks drop gladly off to tea;
The last train starts upon its dangerous way,
And leaves the place to darkness and to me.

Now fades the panting engine's red tail-light,
And all the platform solemn stillness holds,
Save where the watchmen, pacing for the night,
By smothered coughs announce their several colds.

Behind that door of three-inch planking made, Those frosted panes
placed too high up to peep,
All in their iron safes securely laid,
The cooked account-books of the Railway sleep.

The Debts to credit side so neatly borne,
What should be losses, profits proved instead;
The Dividends those pages that adorn
No more shall turn the fond Shareholder's head.

Oft did the doubtful to their balance yield,
Their evidence arithmetic could choke:
How jocund were they that to them appealed!
How many votes of thanks did they provoke!

Let not Derision mock KING HUDSON'S toil,
Who made things pleasant greenhorns to allure;
Nor prudery give hard names unto the spoil
'Twas glad to share—while it could share secure.

All know the way that he his fortune made,
How he bought votes and consciences did hire;
How hands that Gold and Silver-sticks have swayed
To grasp his dirty palm would oft aspire,

Till these accounts at last their doctored page,
Thanks to mischance and panic, did unroll,
When virtue suddenly became the rage,
And wiped George Hudson out of fashion's scroll.

Full many a noble Lord who once serene
The feasts at Albert Gate was glad to share,
For tricks he blushed not at, or blushed unseen,
Now cuts the Iron King with vacant stare.

For those who, mindful of their money fled,
Rejoice in retribution, sure though late—
Should they, by ruin to reflection led,
Ask PUNCH to point the moral of his fate,

Haply that wooden-headed sage may say,
"Oft have I seen him, in his fortune's dawn,
When at his levees elbowing their way,
Peer's ermine might be seen and Bishop's lawn.

"There the great man vouchsafed in turn to each
Advice, what scrip or shares 'twas best to buy,
There his own arts his favorites he would teach,
And put them up to good things on the sly.

"Till to the House by his admirers borne,
Warmed with Champagne in flustered speech he strove,
And on through commerce, colonies, and corn,
Like engine, without break or driver, drove.

"Till when he ceased to dip in fortune's till,
Out came one cooked account—of our M. P.;
Another came—yet men scarce ventured, still,
To think their idol such a rogue could be.

"Until those figures set in sad array
Proved how his victims he had fleeced and shorn
Approach and read (if thou canst read) my lay,
Writ on him more in sadness than in scorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here lies, the gilt rubbed off his sordid earth,
A man whom Fortune made to Fashion known;
Though void alike of breeding, parts, or birth,
God Mammon early marked him for his own.

Large was his fortune, but he bought it dear;
When he won foully he did freely spend.
He plundered no one knows how much a-year,
But Chancery o'ertook him in the end.

No further seek his frailties to disclose:
For many of his sins should share the load:
While he kept rising, who asked how he rose?
While we could reap, what cared we how he sowed?

THE BOA AND THE BLANKET. [Footnote: A few days before this burlesque of Warren appeared, a boa-constrictor in the London Zoological Gardens swallowed the blanket that had served as its bed.] AN APOLOGUE OF THE ZOOLOGICAL GARDENS.—[AFTER WARREN.] PUNCH.

It is talked of Now! Was talked of Yesterday!
May be muttered to-morrow! What?—
THE BOA THAT BOLTED THE BLANKET,
Speckled Enthusiast!

It was full moon's full moonlight! The Shilling
I had paid down at the Gate
Seem'd hung in Heaven. To NEWTON'S EYE
(As Master of the Mint).
A Splendid, yea, Celestial Shilling!
I was alone, with Nothing to Speak of
But Creation!

Yes! Gigantic NOAH'S Ark of twenty times her tonnage,
Lay crouch'd, and purring, and velvety, and fanged
About me!
Cane-colored tigers—rug-spotted Leopards—
Snakes (ah, CUPID!) knit and interknit—to true love knots
Semblable!
Striped Zebra—Onager Calcitrant—Common Ass,
And I—and all were there!
The bushy Squirrel with his half-cracked Nut,
Slept. The Boar of Allemagne snored.
The Lion's Cage was hot with heat of blood:
And Peace in Curtain Ring linked two Ring Doves!

In Gardens Zoological and Regent,
I, meditating, stood!
And still the moon looked wondrous like a Shilling,
Impartial Moon, that showed me all.

My heart fluttered as tho' winged from Mercury!
I moved—approached the Snake-House!
Oh, the balm of Paradise that came and went!
The silver gleams of Eden shooting down the trembling strings
Of my melodious heart!
Down—down to its coral roots!
I dashed aside the human tear; and—yes—prepared myself
With will, drunk from the eyes of Hope, to gaze upon the Snake!
The Boa!!
The Python!!!
The Anaconda!!!!

A Boa was there! A Boa, 'neath Crystal Roof!
And rabbits, taking the very moonlight in their paws,
Washed their meek faces. Washed, then hopped!
"And so (I couldn't help it) so," I groaned—"the ancient Snake—
That milk-white thing—and innocent—trustful!
And then, Death—Death—
And lo! there, typical, it is—it is—
THE BLANKET!!
Death shred of living thing that cropped the flower;
And, thoughtless, bleated forth its little baa-a!"

Away! I will not tarry! Let the Boa sleep,
And Rabbits, that have given bills to destiny,
Meet his demand at three and six months' date!
(We know such Boas and rabbits,
Know we not?)
Let me pass on!
And here 'tis cool; nay, even cold
Without the Snake-House!

The Moon still glistens, and again I think
Of Multitudes who've paid and stared, and yawned and wandered here!
The city muckworm, who
Prom peacock orient, scarce could tell a cock
Of hay!
Though be ye sure, a guinea from a guinea-pig
He knows, and (as for money)
Ever has his squeak for't!
Here, too, paused the wise, sagacious man,
Master of probabilities!
He sees the tusk of elephant—the two tusks—
And, with a thought, cuts 'em into cubes—
And with another thought—another—and another-
Tells (to himself) how oft, in twenty years
Those spotted squares shall come up sixes!
And this in living elephant!

And HER MAJESTY has trod these Walks,
Accompanied
By
PRINCE ALBERT,
THE PRINCE OF WALES,
THE PRINCESS ROYAL,
And
The Rest of the Royal Children!—

She saw the Tiger!
Did she think of TIPPOO SAIB'S Tiger's Head?
She saw the Lion!
Thought she of one of her own Arms?
She did NOT see the Unicorn; but
(With her gracious habits of condescension)
Did she think of him a bit the less?
Thoughts crowd upon me-cry move on!

And now I am here; and whether I will or no,
I feel I'm jolly!
The Chameleons are asleep, and, like the Cabinet
(Of course i mean the Whigs),
Know not, when they rise to-morrow,
What color they will wake!—
The baby elephant seems prematurely old:
Its infant hide all corrugate with thoughts
Of cakes and oranges given it by boys;
Alas! in Chancery now, and paralytic!
This is very sad. No more of it!

Ha! ha! here sits the Ape—the many-colored wight!
Thou hast marked him, with nose of scarlet sealing-wax,
And so be-colored with prismatic hues,
As though he had come from sky to earth—
Sliding and wiping a fresh-painted rainbow!

Hush! I have made a perfect circle!
And at the Snake-House once again I stand!
Such is life!
Eh! Oh! Help! Murder! Dreadful Accident!
To be conceived—Oh, perhaps!
Described—Oh, never!
Keepers are up, and crowd about the box—
The Boa's box—with unconcerned rabbits!
Not so the Boa! Look! Behold!
And where's the Blanket?
In the Boa's inside place! The Monster mark!
How he writhes and wrestles with the wool, as though
He had within him rolls and rolls
Of choking, suffocating influenza,
That lift his eyes from out their sockets!—Of fleecy phlegm
That will neither in or out, but mid-way
Seem to strangle!
Silence and wonder settle on the crowd;
From whom instinctively and breathlessly,
Ascend two pregnant questions!
"Will the Boa bolt the blanket?
Will the blanket choke the Boa?"
Such the problem!

And then men mark and deduce
Differently

"THE BLANKET IS ENGLAND: THE BOA THE POPE, WILL THE POPE DISGORGE HIS BULL?"

"THE BLANKET'S FREE TRADE: THE CORN-GORGED FOLK IS THE BOA WITH PLENTY STIFLED!"

"THE BLANKET'S REFORM TO GAG THE MOB, AND NAUGHT TO SATISFY!"

But I, a lofty and an abstract man,
A creature of a higher element
Than ever nourished the wood
Ordained for ballot-boxes—I
Say nothing; until a Keeper comes to me, and,
Hooking his fore-finger in his forehead's lock,
Says—"What's your opinion, Sir?
If Boas will bolt Blankets, Boas must:
If Snakes will rush upon their end, why not?"
"My friend," said I, "The Blanket and the Boa—
You will conceive me—are a type, yes, just a type,
Of this our day.
The dumb and monstrous, tasteless appetite
Of stupid Boa, to gobble up for food
What needs must scour or suffocate,
Not nourish!
My friend, let the wool of that one blanket
Warm but the back of one live sheep,
And the Boa would bolt the animal entire,
And flourish on his meal, transmuting flesh and bones,
And turning them to healthful nutriment!
Believe this vital truth;
The stomach may take down and digest
And sweetly, too, a leg of mutton;
That would turn at and reject
One little ball of worsted!"

On saying this I turned away,
Feeling adown the small-o'-the back
That gentle warmth that waits upon us, when WE KNOW
We have said a good thing;
Knowing it better than the vain world
Ever can or ever will
Reader, I have sung my song!
The BOA AND THE B——, like new-found star,
Is mine no longer; but the world's!—
Tell me, how have I sung it? With what note?
With note akin that immortal bard
The snow-white Swan of Avon?
Or haply, to that
—RARA AVIS,
—That has
—"Tried WARREN'S?"

THE DILLY AND THE D'S.
[Footnote: Burlesque of Warren's Poem of "The Lily and the Bee,"
published at the home of the great Exhibition of 1851.]
[AN APOLOGUE OF THE OXFORD INSTALLATION.]
BY S—L W—RR—N, Q.S., LL.D., F.R.S
PUNCH.

PART FIRST.

Oh, Spirit! Spirit of Literature,
Alien to Law!
Oh, Muse! ungracious to thy sterner sister, THEMIS,
Whither away?—Away!
Far from my brief—Brief with a fee upon it,
Tremendous!
And probably—before my business is concluded—
A REFRESHER—nay, several!!
Whither whirlest thou thy thrall?
Thy willing thrall?
"NOW AND THEN;"
But not just at this moment,
If you please, Spirit!
No, let me read and ponder on
THE PLEADINGS.
Declaration!
Plea!!
Replication!!!
Rejoinder!!!!
Surrejoinder!!!!!
Rebutter!!!!!!
Surrebutter!!!!!!!
ETC! ETC!! ETC!!!
It may not be. The Muse—
As ladies often are—
Though lovely, is obstinate,
And will have her own way!
* * * *
And am I not
As well as a Q.S.,
An F.R.S.
And LL.D.?
Ask BLACKWOOD
The reason why, and he will tell you,
So will the Mayor—
The MAYOR OF HULL!
I obey, Spirit.
Hang my brief—'tis gone!—
To-morrow let my junior cram me in Court.
Whither away? Where am I?
What is it I behold?
In space, or out of space? I know not.
In fact
I've not the least idea if I'm crazy.
Or sprung—sprung?
I've only had a pint of Port at dinner
And can't be sprung—
Oh, no!—Shame on the thought!
I see a coach!—
Is it a coach?
Not exactly.
Yet it has wheels—
Wheels within wheels—and on the box
A driver, and a cad behind,
And Horses—Horses?—
Bethink thee—Worm!—
Are they Horses? or that race
Lower than Horses, but with longer ears
And less intelligence—
In fact—"EQUI ASINI,"
Or in vernacular
JACKASSES?
'Tis not a coach exactly—
Now I see on the panels—
Pricked out and flourished—
A word! A magic word—
"THE DILLY!"—"THE DERBY DILLY!"
Oh Dilly! Dilly!—all thy passengers
Are outsiders—
The road is rough and rutty—
And thy driver, like NIMSHI'S son—
Driveth
Furiously!
And the cad upon the monkey-board
The monkey-board behind,
Scorneth the drag—but goes
Downhill like mad.
He hath a Caucasian brow!
A son of SHEM, is he,
Not of HAM—
Nor JAPHETH—
In fact a Jew—
But see, the pace
Grows faster—and more fast—in fact—
I may say
A case of Furious driving!
Take care, you'll be upset—
Look out!
Holloa!
* * * *
Horrible! Horrible!! Horrible!!
The Dilly—
With all its precious freight
Of men and Manners—
Is gone!
Gone to immortal
SMASH!
Pick up the pieces! Let me wipe my eyes!
Oh Muse—lend me my scroll
To do it with, for I have lost
My wipe!

PART SECOND

* * * Again upon the road
The road to where?
To nowhere in particular!
Ah, no—I thank thee, Muse—
That hint—'tis a finger-post,
And "he that runs may read"—
He that runs?
But I am not running—
I am riding—
How came I here?—what am I riding on?
Who are my fellow-passengers?
Ah, ha!
I recognize them now!
The Coach—
The Box—
The Driver—
And the Cad—
I'm on the Dilly, and the Dilly Is on the road again
And now I see
That finger-post!
It saith
"To Oxford
Fifty-two miles."
And, hark! a chorus!
From all the joyous load,
Driver and cad, and all!
"We go," they sing—
To OXFORD TO BE DOCTORED."
To be Doctored?
Then, wherefore
Are ye so cheerful?
I was not cheerful in my early days—
Days of my buoyant boyhood—
When, after inglutition
Of too much
Christmas pudding,
Or Twelfth cake saccharine,
I went, as we go now,
To be Doctored!
Salts!
Senna and Rhubarb!!
Jalap and Ipecacuanha!!!
And Antimonial Wine!!!!
"WORM!
IDIOT!!
DONKEY!!!"
Said the free-spoken Muse
"With them thou goest to be doctored, too,
Not in medicine—but in Law—
All these—and thou—
Are going to be made
HONORARY
LL.D.s!
Behold!
And know thy company
Be thou familiar with them,
But by no means vulgar—
For familiarity breeds contempt;
And no man is a hero
To his VALET-DE-CHAMBRE!
So ponder and perpend."
DERBY!
The wise, the meek, the chivalrous—
Mirror of knightly graces
And daily dodges;
Who always says the right things
At the right time,
And never forgets himself as others—
Nor changes his side
Nor his opinion—
A STANLEY to the core, as ready
To fight
As erst on FLODDEN FIELD
His mail-clad ancestor.—
See the poem
Of MARMION,
By SIR WALTER SOOTT!
DIZZY!
Dark—supple—subtle—
With mind lithe as the limbs
Of ISHMAEL'S sons, his swart progenitors—
With tongue sharp as the spear
That o'er Sahara
Flings the blue shadow
Of the crown of ostrich feathers—
As described so graphically
By LAYARD, in his recent book
On Nineveh!
With tongue as sharp
As aspic's tooth of NILUS,
Or sugary
Upon the occasion
As is the date
Of TAFILAT.
DIZZY, the bounding Arab
Of the political arena—
As swift to whirl
Right about face—
As strong to leap
From premise to conclusion—
As great in balancing
A budget—
Or flinging headlong
His somersets
Over sharp swords of adverse facts,
As were his brethren of EL-ARISH,
Who
Some years ago exhibited—
With rapturous applause—
At Astley's Amphitheater—
And subsequently
At Vauxhall Gardens!
* * * * *
Clustering, front and back
On box and knife-board,
See, petty man;
Behold! and thank thy stars
That led thee—Worm—
THEE, that art merely a writer
And a barrister,
Although a man of elegant acquirements,
A gentleman and a scholar—
Nay, F.R.S. to boot—
Into such high society,
Among such SWELLS,
And REAL NOBS!
Behold! ten live LORDS! and lo *! no end
Of Ex-Cabinet Ministers!
Oh! happy, happy, happy,
Oh, happy SAM!
Say, isn't this worth, at the least
"TEN THOUSAND A YEAR!"
* * * * *
And these are all, to day at least—-
Thy fellows!
Going to be made
LL.D.s, even as thyself—
And thou shalt walk in silk attire.
And hob and nob with all the mighty of the earth,
And lunch in Hall—
In Hall!
Where lunched before thee,
But on inferior grub,
That first great SAM—
SAM JOHNSON!
And LAUD, and ROGER BACON,
And CRANMER, LATIMER,
And RIDLEY,
And CYRIL JACKSON—and a host besides,
Whom at my leisure
I will look up
In WOOD'S
"ATHENAE OXONIENSES"
Only to think!
How BLACKWOOD
Is honored!
ALISON! AYTOUN!
BULWER!!!
And last, not least
The great SAM GANDERAM!!!!
Oh EBONY!
Oh MAGA!
And oh
Our noble selves!

"A BOOK IN A BUSTLE." A TRUE TALE OF THE WARWICK ASSIZES. BY THE GHOST OF CRABBE. PUNCH.

The partial power that to the female race
Is charged to apportion gifts of form and grace,
With liberal hand molds beauty's curves in one,
And to another gives as good as none:
But woman still for nature proves a match,
And grace by her denied, from art will snatch.
Hence, great ELIZA, grew thy farthingales;
Hence, later ANNA, swelled thy hoops' wide pales;
To this we must refer the use of stays;
Nor less the bustle of more modern days.

Artful device! whose imitative pad
Into good figures roundeth off the bad—
Whether of simple sawdust thou art seen,
Or tak'st the guise of costlier crinoline—
How oft to thee the female form doth owe
A grace rotund, a line of ampler flow,
Than flesh and blood thought fit to clothe it with below!

There dwelt in Liverpool a worthy dame,
Who had a friend—JAMES TAYLOR was his name.
He dealt in glass, and drove a thriving trade
And still saved up the profits that he made,
Till when a daughter blessed his marriage bed,
The father in the savings-bank was led
In his child's name a small sum to invest,
From which he drew the legal interest.
Years went and came; JAMES TAYLOR came and went,
Paid in, and drew, his modest three per cent,
Till, by the time his child reach'd girlhood's bounds,
The sum had ris'n to two-and-twenty pounds.

Our cautious legislature—well 'tis known—
Round savings-banks a guardian fence has thrown:
'Tis easy to pay into them, no doubt,
Though any thing but easy to draw out.
And so JAMES TAYLOR found; for on a day
He wanted twenty pounds a bill to pay,
And, short of cash, unto the bank applied;
Failing some form of law, he was denied!

JAMES TAYLOR humm'd and haw'd—look'd blank and blue;—
In short, JAMES TAYLOR knew not what to do:
His creditor was stern—the bill was over due.
As to a friend he did his plight deplore—
The worthy dame of whom I spoke before—
(It might cause pain to give the name she owns,
So let me use the pseudonym of JONES);
"TAYLOR," said MRS. JONES, "as I'm a friend,
I do not care if I the money lend.
But even friends security should hold:
Give me security—I'll lend the gold."
"This savings-bank deposit-book!" he cries.
"See—in my daughter's name the sum that lies!"
She saw—and, satisfied, the money lent;
Wherewith JAMES TAYLOR went away content.
But now what cares seize MRS. JONES'S breast!
What terrors throng her once unbroken rest!
Cash she could keep, in many a secret nook—
But where to stow away JAMES TAYLOR'S book?
Money is heavy: where 'tis put 't will stay;
Paper—as WILLIAM COBBETT used to say—
Will make wings to itself, and fly away!
Long she devised: new plans the old ones chase,
Until at last she hit upon a place.
Was't VENUS that the strange concealment planned,
Or rather PLUTUS'S irreverent hand?
Good MRS. JONES was of a scraggy make;
But when did woman vanity forsake?
What nature sternly to her form denied,
A Bustle's ample aid had well supplied,
Within whose vasty depths the book might safely hide!

'Twas thought—'twas done! by help of ready pin,
The sawdust was let out, the book put in.
Henceforth—at home—abroad—where'er she moved,
Behind her lurk'd the volume that she loved.
She laughed to scorn the cut-purse and his sleight:
No fear of burglars scared her through the night;

But ah, what shrine is safe from greed of gold,
What fort against cupidity can hold?
Can stoutest buckram's triple fold keep in,
The ODOR LUCRI—the strong scent of TIN?
For which CHUBB's locks are weak, and MILNER's safes are thin.

Some time elapsed—the time required by law,
Which past, JAMES TAYLOR might the money draw,
His kind but cautious creditor to pay,
So to the savings-bank they took their way.
There MRS. JONES with modesty withdrew—
To do what no rude eye might see her do—
And soon returning—with a blushing look,
Unmarked by TAYLOR, she produced the book.
Which he, presenting, did the sum demand
Of MR. TOMKINS, the cashier so bland.

What can there be upon the red-lined page
That TOMKINS's quick eye should so engage?
What means his invitation to J.T.,
To "Walk in for a moment"—"he would see"—
"Only a moment"—"'twas all right, no doubt,"
"It could not be"—"and yet"—here he slipped out,
Leaving JAMES TAYLOR grievously perplexed,
And MRS. JONES by his behavior vexed.
"What means the man by treating people so?"
Said TAYLOR, "I am a loss to know."
Too soon, alas, the secret cause they knew!
TOMKINS return'd, and, with him, one in blue—
POLICEMAN X, a stern man and a strong,
Who told JAMES TAYLOR he must "come along"—
And TOMKINS, seeing MRS. JONES aghast,
Revealed the book was forged—from first to last!

Who can describe the wrath of MRS. JONES?
The chill of fear that crept through TAYLOR'S bones?
The van—the hand-cuffs—and the prison cell
Where pined JAMES TAYLOR—wherefore pause to tell?
Soon came the Assizes—and the legal train;
In form the clerk JAMES TAYLOR did arraign;
And though his council mustered tears at will,
And made black white with true Old Bailey skill,
TAYLOR, though MRS. JONES for mercy sued,
Was doomed to five years' penal servitude;
And in a yellow suit turned up with gray,
To Portland prison was conveyed away!

Time passed: forgot JAMES TAYLOR and his shame—
When lo—one day unto the bank there came
A new JAMES TAYLOR—a new MRS. JONES—
And a new book, which TOMKINS genuine owns!
"Two TAYLORS and two JONESES and two books"—
Thought wary TOMKINS, "this suspicious looks—
"The former TAYLOR, former JONES I knew—
These are imposters-yet the book is true!"
When like a flash upon his mind it burst—
Who brought the second book had forged the first!

Again was summon'd X, the stern, the strong—
Again that pair were bid to "Come along!"
The truth before the justices appear'd,
And wrong'd JAMES TAYLOR'S character was clear'd.

In evil hour—by what chance ne'er was known,
Whether the bustle's seam had come unsewn,
Or MRS. JONES by chance had laid aside
The artificial charms that decked her side—
But so it was, how or whene'er assailed—
The treacherous hiding-place was tried—and failed!

The book was ta'en—a forged one fill'd its place;-
And MRS. JONES was robb'd—not to her face—
And poor JAMES TAYLOE doom'd to trial and disgrace!

Who shall describe her anguish—her remorse?
James Taylor was at once released, of course;
And Mrs. Jones, repentant, inly swore
Henceforth to carry, what she'd keep, before.

My tale is told—and, what is more, 'tis true:
I read it in the papers—so may you.
And this its moral: Mrs. Joneses all—
Though reticules may drop, and purses fall,
Though thieves may unprotected females hustle,
Never invest your money in a bustle.

STANZAS FOR THE SENTIMENTAL. PUNCH.

I.

ON A TEAR WHICH ANGELINA OBSERVED TRICKLING DOWN MY NOSE AT DINNER TIME.

Nay, fond one I will ne'er reveal
Whence flowed that sudden tear:
The truth 't were kindness to conceal
From thy too anxious ear.

How often when some hidden spring
Of recollected grief
Is rudely touched, a tear will bring
The bursting breast relief!

Yet 't was no anguish of the soul,
No memory of woes,
Bade that one lonely tearlet roll
Adown my chiseled nose:

But, ah! interrogation's note
Still twinkles in thine eye;
Know then that I have burnt my throat
With this confounded pie!

II.

OM MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE

Nay, fond one, shun that misletoe,
Nor lure me 'neath its fatal bough:
Some other night 't were joy to go,
But ah! I must not, dare not now!
'Tis sad, I own, to see thy face
Thus tempt me with its giggling glee,
And feel I can not now embrace
The opportunity—and thee.

'Tis sad to think that jealousy's
Sharp scissors may our true love sever;
And that my coldness now may freeze
Thy warm affection, love, forever.
But ah! to disappoint our bliss,
A fatal hind'rance now is stuck:'Tis not that I am loath to kiss,
But, dearest, list—I DINED OFF DUCK!

III.

ON MY FINDING ANGELINA STOP SUDDENLY IN A RAPID AFTER-SUPPER POLKA AT MRS. TOMPKINS'S BALL.

EDWIN. "Maiden, why that look of sadness?
Whence that dark o'erclouded brow?
What hath stilled thy bounding gladness,
Changed thy pace from fast to slow?
Is it that by impulse sudden
Childhood's hours thou paus'st to mourn?
Or hath thy cruel EDWIN trodden
Right upon thy favorite corn?

"Is it that for evenings wasted
Some remorse thou 'gin'st to feel?
Or hath that sham champagne we tasted
Turned thy polka to a reel?
Still that gloom upon each feature?
Still that sad reproachful frown?"
ANGELINA. "Can't you see, you clumsy creature,
All my back hair's coming down!"

COLLOQUY ON A CAB-STAND. ADAPTED FOR THE BOUDOIR. PUNCH.

"OH! WILLIAM," JAMES was heard to say—
JAMES drove a hackney cabriolet:
WILLIAM, the horses of his friend,
With hay and water used to tend.
"Now, tell me, WILLIAM, can it be,
That MAYNE has issued a decree,
Severe and stern, against us, planned
Of comfort to deprive our Stand?"

"I fear the tale is all too true,"
Said WILLIAM, "on my word I do."
"Are we restricted to the Row
And from the footpath?" "Even so."

"Must our companions be resigned,
We to the Rank alone confined?"
"Yes; or they apprehend the lads
Denominated Bucks and Cads."

"Dear me!" cried JAMES, "how very hard
And are we, too, from beer debarred?"
Said WILLIAM, "While remaining here
We also are forbidden beer."

"Nor may we breathe the fragrant weed?"
"That's interdicted too." "Indeed!"
"Nor in the purifying wave
Must we our steeds or chariots lave."

"For private drivers, at request,
It is SIR RICHARD MAYNE'S behest
That we shall move, I understand?"
"Such, I believe, IS the command"

"Of all remains of food and drink
Left by our animals I think,
We are required to clear the ground?"
"Yes: to remove them we are bound."

"These mandates should we disobey—"
"They take our licenses away."
"That were unkind. How harsh our lot!"
"It is indeed." "Now is it not?"

"Thus strictly why are we pursued?"
"It is alleged that we are rude;
The people opposite complain,
Our lips that coarse expressions stain."

"Law, how absurd!" "And then, they say
We smoke and tipple all the day,
Are oft in an excited state,
Disturbance, noise, and dirt create."

"What shocking stories people tell!
I never! Did you ever?—Well—
Bless them!" the Cabman mildly sighed.
"May they be blest!" his Friend replied.

THE SONG OF HIAWATHA. AN ENGLISH CRITICISM PUNCH.

You, who hold in grace and honor,
Hold, as one who did you kindness
When he publish'd former poems,
Sang Evangeline the noble,
Sang the golden Golden Legend,
Sang the songs the Voices utter
Crying in the night and darkness,
Sang how unto the Red Planet
Mars he gave the Night's First Watches,
Henry Wadsworth, whose adnomen
(Coming awkward, for the accents,
Into this his latest rhythm)
Write we as Protracted Fellow,
Or in Latin, LONGUS COMES—
Buy the Song of Hiawatha.

Should you ask me, Is the poem
Worthy of its predecessors,
Worthy of the sweet conception,
Of the manly nervous diction,
Of the phrase, concise or pliant,
Of the songs that sped the pulses,
Of the songs that gemm'd the eyelash,
Of the other works of Henry?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You may wish that you may get it—
Don't you wish that you may get it?

Should you ask me, Is it worthless,
Is it bosh and is it bunkum,
Merely facile flowing nonsense,
Easy to a practiced rhythmist,
Fit to charm a private circle,
But not worth the print and paper
David Bogue hath here expended?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You're a fool and most presumptuous.
Hath not Henry Wadsworth writ it?
Hath not PUNCH commanded "Buy it?"

Should you ask me, What's its nature?
Ask me, What's the kind of poem?
Ask me in respectful language,
Touching your respectiful beaver,
Kicking back your manly hind-leg,
Like to one who sees his betters;
I should answer, I should tell you,
'Tis a poem in this meter,
And embalming the traditions,
Fables, rites, and suspepstitions,
Legends, charms, and ceremonials
Of the various tribes of Indians,
From the land of the Ojibways,
From the land of the Dacotahs,
From the mountains, moors, and fenlands,
Where the heron, the Shuh-shuh-gah,
Finds its sugar in the rushes:
From the fast-decaying nations,
Which our gentle Uncle Samuel
Is improving, very smartly,
From the face of all creation,
Off the face of all creation.

Should you ask me, By what story,
By what action, plot, or fiction,
All these matters are connected?
I should answer, I should tell you,
Go to Bogue and buy the poem,
Publish'd neatly, at one shilling,
Publish'd sweetly, at five shillings.
Should you ask me, Is there music
In the structure of the verses,
In the names and in the phrases?
Pleading that, like weaver Bottom,
You prefer your ears well tickled;
I should answer, I should tell you,
Henry's verse is very charming;
And for names—there's Hiawatha,
Who's the hero of the poem;
Mudjeekeewis, that's the West Wind,
Hiawatha's graceless father;
There's Nokomis, there's Wenonah—
Ladies both, of various merit;
Puggawangum, that's a war-club;
Pau-puk-keewis, he's a dandy,
"Barr'd with streaks of red and yellow;
And the women and the maidens
Love the handsome Pau-puk-keewis,"
Tracing in him PUNCH'S likeness.
Then there's lovely Minnehaha—
Pretty name with pretty meaning—
It implies the Laughing-water;
And the darling Minnehaha
Married noble Hiawatha;
And her story's far too touching
To be sport for you, yon donkey,
With your ears like weaver Bottom's,
Ears like booby Bully Bottom.

Once upon a time in London,
In the days of the Lyceum,
Ages ere keen Arnold let it
To the dreadful Northern Wizard,
Ages ere the buoyant Mathews
Tripp'd upon its boards in briskness—
I remember, I remember
How a scribe, with pen chivalrous,
Tried to save these Indian stories
From the fate of chill oblivion.
Out came sundry comic Indians
Of the tribe of Kut-an-hack-um.
With their Chief, the clean Efmatthews,
With the growling Downy Beaver,
With the valiant Monkey's Uncle,
Came the gracious Mari-Kee-lee,
Firing off a pocket-pistol,
Singing, too, that Mudjee-keewis
(Shorten'd in the song to "Wild Wind,")
Was a spirit very kindly.
Came her Sire, the joyous Kee-lee,
By the waning tribe adopted,
Named the Buffalo, and wedded
To the fairest of the maidens,
But repented of his bargain,
And his brother Kut-an-hack-ums
Very nearly ohopp'd his toes off—
Serve him right, the fickle Kee-lee.
If you ask me, What this memory
Hath to do with Hiawatha,
And the poem which I speak of?
I should answer, I should tell you,
You're a fool, and most presumptuous;
'Tis not for such humble cattle
To inquire what links and unions
Join the thoughts, and mystic meanings,
Of their betters, mighty poets,
Mighty writers—PUNCH the mightiest;
I should answer, I should tell you,
Shut your mouth, and go to David,
David, MR. PUNCH'S neighbor,
Buy the Song of Hiawatha,
Read, and learn, and then be thankful
Unto PUNCH and Henry Wadsworth,
PUNCH and noble Henry Wadsworth,
Truer poet, better fellow,
Than to be annoyed at jesting,
From his friend, great PUNCH, who loves him.

COMFORT IN AFFLICTION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

"Wherefore starts my bosom's lord?
Why this anguish in thine eye?
Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord
Had broken with that sigh!

"Rest thee, my dear lord, I pray,
Rest thee on my bosom now!
And let me wipe the dews away,
Are gathering on thy brow.

"There, again! that fevered start!
What, love! husband! is thy pain?
There is a sorrow in thy heart,
A weight upon thy brain!

"Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er
Deceive affection's searching eye;
'Tis a wife's duty, love, to share
Her husband's agony.

"Since the dawn began to peep,
Have I lain with stifled breath;
Heard thee moaning in thy sleep,
As thou wert at grips with death.

"Oh, what joy it was to see
My gentle lord once more awake!
Tell me, what is amiss with thee?
Speak, or my heart will break!"

"Mary, thou angel of my life,
Thou ever good and kind;
'Tis not, believe me, my dear wife,
The anguish of the mind!

"It is not in my bosom, dear,
No, nor my brain, in sooth;
But Mary, oh, I feel it here,
Here in my wisdom tooth!

"Then give,—oh, first, best antidote,—
Sweet partner of my bed!
Give me thy flannel petticoat
To wrap around my head!"

[Illustration: Lowell]

THE HUSBAND'S PETITION. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Come hither, my heart's darling,
Come, sit upon my knee,
And listen, while I whisper,
A boon I ask of thee.
You need not pull my whiskers
So amorously, my dove;
'Tis something quite apart from
The gentle cares of love.

I feel a bitter craving—
A dark and deep desire,
That glows beneath my bosom
Like coals of kindled fire.
The passion of the nightingale,
When singing to the rose,
Is feebler than the agony
That murders my repose!

Nay, dearest! do not doubt me,
Though madly thus I speak—
I feel thy arms about me,
Thy tresses on my cheek:
I know the sweet devotion
That links thy heart with mine—
I know my soul's emotion
Is doubly felt by thine:

And deem not that a shadow
Hath fallen across my love:
No, sweet, my love is shadowless,
As yonder heaven above.
These little taper fingers—
Ah! Jane, how white they be!—
Can well supply the cruel want
That almost maddens me.

Thou wilt not sure deny me
My first and fond request;
I pray thee, by the memory
Of all we cherish best—
By all the dear remembrance
Of those delicicious days,
When, hand in hand, we wandered
Along the summer braes:

By all we felt, unspoken,
When 'neath the early moon,
We sat beside the rivulet,
In the leafy month of June;
And by the broken whisper,
That fell upon my ear,
More sweet than angel-music,
When first I woo'd thee, dear!

By that great vow which bound thee
Forever to my side,
And by the ring that made thee
My darling and my bride!
Thou wilt not fail nor falter,
But bend thee to the task—
A BOILED SHEEP'S HEAD ON SUNDAY
Is all the boon I ask.

THE BITER BIT. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

The sun is in the sky, mother, the flowers are springing fair,
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the air;
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the sea,
And happiness is everywhere, oh, mother, but with me!

They are going to the church, mother—I hear the marriage bell
It booms along the upland—oh! it haunts me like a knell;
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering step,
And closely to his side she clings—she does, the demirep!

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft have stood,
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the wood;
And the boughs, that wont to murmur back the words that won my ear,
Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his bridal fere.

He will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my hand he
pressed,
By the meadow where, with quivering lip, his passion he confessed;
And down the hedgerows where we've strayed again and yet again;
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted Jane!

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank and gold,
He said I did not love him—he said my words were cold;
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher game—
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done the same?

I did not know my heart, mother—I know it now too late;
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler mate;
But no nobler suitor sought me—and he has taken wing,
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted thing.

You may lay me in my bed, mother—my head is throbbing sore;
And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired before;
And, if you'd please, my mother dear, your poor desponding child,
Draw me a pot of beer, mother, and, mother, draw it mild!

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION. BY SIR E———- B———- L———-. WILLIAM AYTOUN

Fill me once more the foaming pewter up!
Another board of oysters, ladye mine!
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup.
These mute inglorious Miltons are divine;
And as I here in slippered ease recline,
Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill,
I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill.
A nobler inspiration fires my brain,
Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink,
I snatch the pot again and yet again,
And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink,
Fill me once more, I say, up to the brink!
This makes strong hearts—strong heads attest its charm—
This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawny arm!

But these remarks are neither here nor there.
Where was I? Oh, I see—old Southey's dead!
They'll want some bard to fill the vacant chair,
And drain the annual butt—and oh, what head
More fit with laurel to be garlanded
Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil,
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil?

I know a grace is seated on my brow,
Like young Apollo's with his golden beams;
There should Apollo's bays be budding now:
And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams
That marks the poet in his waking dreams.
When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker,
He feels the trance divine of poesy and liquor.

They throng around me now, those things of air,
That from my fancy took their being's stamp:
There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair,
There Clifford leads his pals upon the tramp;
Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp,
Roams through the starry wilderness of thought,
Where all is every thing, and every thing is naught.

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won
The gentle ear of pensive Madeline!
How love and murder hand in hand may run,
Cemented by philosophy serene,
And kisses bless the spot where gore has been!
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime,
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime!

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed
Obscure philosophy's enchanting light!
Until the public, wildered as they read,
Believed they saw that which was not in sight—
Of course 'twas not for me to set them right;
For in my nether heart convinced I am,
Philosophy's as good as any other bam.

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more—
Somehow or other now they will not sell;
And to invent new passions is a bore—
I find the Magazines pay quite as well.
Translating's simple, too, as I can tell,
Who've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne,
And given the astonished bard a meaning all my own.

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are grassed,
Battered and broken are their early lyres.
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past,
Warmed his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires,
And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires.
But these are things would suit me to the letter,
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry's greatly better.

A fice for your small poetic ravers,
Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these!
Shall they compete with him who wrote "Maltravers,"
Prologue to "Alice or the Mysteries?"
No! Even now, my glance prophetic sees
My own high brow girt with the bays about.
What ho, within there, ho! another pint of STOUT!

THE DIRGE OF THE DRINKER. BY W——— E——— A———, ESQ. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tumbler down;
He has dropp'd—that star of honor—on the field of his renown!
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your knees,
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you please.
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink,
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half with drink!
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from off the floor;
See how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail in door!
Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd; where the drink most freely
flow'd,
I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker strode.
Deep in shady Cider Cellars I have dream'd o'er heavy wet,
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the rich Sherbet,
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock,
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my hock;
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er Monsoon,
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the Moon;
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danesman blind,
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth declined;
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, I have shared the planter's rum,
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels till each gibbering Gael grew
dumb;
But a stouter, bolder drinker—one that loved his liquor more—
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the floor!
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir,
He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd—let the rest of us beware!
We shall leave him, as we found him—lying where his manhood fell,
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple well.
Better't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat and bosom bare,
Pulled his Hobi's off, and turn'd his toes to taste the breezy air.
Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the gas,
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we pass,
We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, near and handy,
Large supplies of soda water, tumblers bottomed well with brandy,
So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless thirst of
his,
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un as he is!

FRANCESCA DA RIMINI. TO BON GAULTIER. WILLIAM AYTOUN.

ARGUMENT-An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive consequences thus:

Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball,
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small,
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less,
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness!
Dost thou remember, when with stately prance,
Our heads went crosswise in the country dance;
How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm,
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm;
And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes?
Ah, me! that night there was one gentle thing,
Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing,
Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering!
There's wont to be, at conscious times like these,
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease—
A crispy-cheekiness, if so I dare
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air;
And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel,
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille.
That smiling voice, although it made me start,
Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart;
And, picking at my flowers, I said with free
And usual tone, "Oh yes, sir, certainly!"

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear,
I heard the music burning in my ear,
And felt I cared not, so thou wert with me,
If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis.
So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came,
And took his place against us with his dame,
I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk
From the stern survey of the soldier-monk,
Though rather more than full three-quarters drunk;
But threading through the figure, first in rule,
I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule.
Ah, what a sight was that? Not prurient Mars,
Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars—
Not young Apollo, beamily array'd
In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade—
Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth,
Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth,
Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong,
As thou when pranking thro' the glittering throng!
How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above;
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river,
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver!
So bare was thy fine throat, and curls of black
So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back.
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet,
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it,
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee,
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery!

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm
(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm),
We pass'd to the great refreshment hall,
Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small
Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, to burn
Around the margin of the negus urn;
When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice,
And, with inquiring accents, whisper'd "Ice,
Water, or cream?" I could no more dissemble,
But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble.
A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain,
The corks seem'd starting from the brisk champagne,
The custards fell untouch'd upon the floor,
Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more!

LOUIS NAPOLEON'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY WILLIAM AYTOUN.

Guards! who at Smolensko fled—
No—I beg your pardon—bled!
For my Uncle blood you've shed,
Do the same for me.

Now's the day and now's the hour,
Heads to split and streets to scour;
Strike for rank, promotion, power,
Sawg, and eau de vie.

Who's afraid a child to kill?
Who respects a shopman's till?
Who would pay a tailor's bill?
Let him turn and flee.

Who would burst a goldsmith's door,
Shoot a dun, or sack a store?
Let him arm, and go before—
That is, follow me!

See the mob, to madness riled,
Up the barricades have piled;
In among them, man and child,
Unrelentingly!

Shoot the men! there's scarcely one
In a dozen's got a gun:
Stop them, if they try to run,
With artillery!

Shoot the boys! each one may grow
Into—of the state—a foe
(Meaning by the state, you know,
My supremacy!)

Shoot the girls and women old!
Those may bear us traitors bold—
These may be inclined to scold
Our severity.

Sweep the streets of all who may
Rashly venture in the way,
Warning for a future day
Satisfactory.

Then, when still'd is ev'ry voice,
We, the nation's darling choice,
Calling on them to rejoice,
Tell them, FRANCE IS FREE.

THE BATTLE OF THE BOULEVARD WILLIAM AYTOUN.

On Paris, when the sun was low,
The gay "Comique" made goodly show,
Habitues crowding every row
To hear Limnandier's opera.

But Paris showed another sight,
When, mustering in the dead of night,
Her masters stood, at morning light,
The crack shasseurs of Africa

By servants in my pay betrayed,
Cavaignac, then, my prisoner made,
Wrote that a circumstance delayed
His marriage rite and revelry.

Then shook small Thiers, with terror riven;
Then stormed Bedeau, while gaol-ward driven;
And, swearing (not alone by Heaven),
Was seized bold Lamoriciere.

But louder rose the voice of woe
When soldiers sacked each cit's depot,
And tearing down a helpless foe,
Flashed Magnan's red artillery.

More, more arrests! Changarnier brave
Is dragged to prison like a knave:
No time allowed the swell to shave,
Or use the least perfumery.

'Tis morn, and now Hortense's son
(Perchance her spouse's too) has won
The imperial crown. The French are done,
Chawed up most incontestably.

Few, few shall write, and none shall meet;
Suppressed shall be each journal-sheet;
And every serf beneath my feet
Shall hail the soldier's Emperor.

PUFFS POETICAL. WILLIAM AYTOUM

I.

PARIS AND HELEN.

As the youthful Paris presses
Helen to his ivory breast,
Sporting with her golden tresses,
Close and ever closer pressed.

He said: "So let me quaff the nectar,
Which thy lips of ruby yield;
Glory I can leave to Hector,
Gathered in the tented field.

"Let me ever gaze upon thee,
Look into thine eyes so deep;
With a daring hand I won thee,
With a faithful heart I'll keep.

"Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder,
Who was ever like to thee?
Jove would lay aside his thunder,
So he might be blest like me.

"How mine eyes so fondly linger
On thy soft and pearly skin;
Scan each round and rosy finger,
Drinking draughts of beauty in!

"Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest!
Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom!
Whence the rosy hue thou wearest,
Breathing round thee rich perfume?"

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted,
Clasped her fondly to his side,
Gazed on her with look enchanted,
While his Helen thus replied:

"Be no discord, love, between us,
If I not the secret tell!
'Twas a gift I had of Venus,—
Venus who hath loved me well.

"And she told me as she gave it,
'Let not e'er the charm be known,
O'er thy person freely lave it,
Only when thou art alone.'

"'Tis inclosed in yonder casket—
Here behold its golden key;
But its name—love, do not ask it,
Tell't I may not, e'en to thee!"

Long with vow and kiss he plied her,
Still the secret did she keep,
Till at length he sank beside her,
Seemed as he had dropped to sleep.

Soon was Helen laid in slumber,
When her Paris, rising slow,
Did his fair neck disencumber
From her rounded arms of snow;

Then her heedless fingers oping,
Takes the key and steals away,
To the ebon table groping,
Where the wondrous casket lay;

Eagerly the lid uncloses,
Sees within it, laid aslope,
Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses,
Cakes of his Transparent Soap!

II.

TARQUIN AND THE AUGUR.

Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving,
Gently glides the razor o'er his chin,
Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving,
And with nasal whine he pitches in,
Church Extension hints,
Till the monarch squints,
Snicks his chin, and swears—a deadly sin!

"Jove confound thee, thou bare-legged impostor!
From my dressing table get thee gone!
Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster?
There again! That cut was to the bone!
Get ye from my sight;
I'll believe you're right
When my razor cuts the sharping hone!"

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness;
But the Augur, eager for his fees,
Answered—"Try it, your Imperial Highness,
Press a little harder, if you please.
There! the deed is done!"
Through the solid stone
Went the steel as glibly as through cheese.

So the Augur touched the tin of Tarquin,
Who suspected some celestial aid:
But he wronged the blameless Gods; for hearken!
Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid,
With his searching eye
Did the priest espy
RODGER'S name engraved upon the blade.

REFLECTIONS OF A PROUD PEDESTRIAN. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

I saw the curl of his waving lash,
And the glance of his knowing eye,
And I knew that he thought he was cutting a dash,
As his steed went thundering by.

And he may ride in the rattling gig,
Or flourish the Stanhope gay,
And dream that he looks exceeding big
To the people that walk in the way;

But he shall think, when the night is still,
On the stable-boy's gathering numbers,
And the ghost of many a veteran bill
Shall hover around his slumbers;

The ghastly dun shall worry his sleep,
And constables cluster around him,
And he shall creep from the wood-hole deep
Where their specter eyes have found him!

Ay! gather your reins, and crack your thong,
And bid your steed go faster;
He does not know as he scrambles along,
That he has a fool for his master;

And hurry away on your lonely ride,
Nor deign from the mire to save me;
I will paddle it stoutly at your side
With the tandem that nature gave me!

EVENING. BY A TAILOR. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Day hath put on his jacket, and around
His burning bosom buttoned it with stars.
Here will I lay me on the velvet grass,
That is like padding to earth's meager ribs,
And hold communion with the things about me.
Ah me! how lovely is the golden braid,
That binds the skirt of night's descending robe!
The thin leaves, quivering on their silken threads,
Do make a music like to rustling satin,
As the light breezes smooth their downy nap.

Ha! what is this that rises to my touch,
So like a cushion? Can it be a cabbage?
It is, it is that deeply injured flower,
Which boys do flout us with;—but yet I love thee,
Thou giant rose, wrapped in a green surtout.
Doubtless in Eden thou didst blush as bright
As these, thy puny brethren; and thy breath
Sweetened the fragrance of her spicy air;
But now thou seemest like a bankrupt beau,
Stripped of his gaudy hues and essences,
And growing portly in his sober garments.

Is that a swan that rides upon the water?
O no, it is that other gentle bird,
Which is the patron of our noble calling.
I well remember, in my early years,
When these young hands first closed upon a goose
I have a scar upon my thimble finger,
Which chronicles the hour of young ambition
My father was a tailor, and his father,
And my sire's grandsire, all of them were tailors;
They had an ancient goose,—it was an heir-loom
From some remoter tailor of our race.
It happened I did see it on a time
When none was near, and I did deal with it,
And it did burn me,—oh, most fearfully!

It is a joy to straighten out one's limbs,
And leap elastic from the level counter,
Leaving the petty grievances of earth,
The breaking thread, the din of clashing shears,
And all the needles that do wound the spirit,
For such a pensive hour of soothing silence.
Kind Nature, shuffling in her loose undress,
Lays bare her shady bosom; I can feel
With all around me;—I can hail the flowers
That sprig earth's mantle,—and yon quiet bird,
That rides the stream, is to me as a brother.
The vulgar know not all the hidden pockets,
Where Nature stows away her loveliness.
But this unnatural posture of my legs
Cramps my extended calves, and I must go
Where I can coil them in their wonted fashion.

PHAETHON; OR, THE AMATEUR COACHMAN. JOHN G. SAXX

DAN PHAETHON—so the histories run—
Was a jolly young chap, and a son of the SUN;
Or rather of PHOEBUS—but as to his mother,
Genealogists make a deuce of a pother,
Some going for one, and some for another!
For myself, I must say, as a careful explorer,
This roaring young blade was the son of AURORA!

Now old Father PHOEBUS, ere railways begun
To elevate funds and depreciate fun,
Drove a very fast coach by the name of "THE SUN;"
Running, they say,
Trips every day
(On Sundays and all, in a heathenish way).
And lighted up with a famous array
Of lanterns that shone with a brilliant display,
And dashing along like a gentleman's "shay."
With never a fare, and nothing to pay!

Now PHAETHON begged of his doting old father,
To grant him a favor, and this the rather,
Since some one had hinted, the youth to annoy,
That he wasn't by any means PHOEBUS'S boy!
Intending, the rascally son of a gun,
To darken the brow of the son of the SUN!
"By the terrible Styx!" said the angry sire,
While his eyes flashed volumes of fury and fire,
"To prove your reviler an infamous liar,
I swear I will grant you whate'er you desire!"
"Then by my head,"
The youngster said,
"I'll mount the coach when the horses are fed!—
For there's nothing I'd choose, as I'm alive,
Like a seat on the box, and a dashing drive!"
"Nay, PHAETHON, don't—
I beg you won't—
Just stop a moment and think upon't!
You're quite too young," continued the sage,
"To tend a coach at your tender age!
Besides, you see,
'T will really be
Your first appearance on any stage!
Desist, my child,
The cattle are wild,
And when their mettle is thoroughly 'riled,'
Depend upon't, the coach'll be 'spiled'—
They're not the fellows to draw it mild!
Desist, I say,
You'll rue the day—
So mind, and don't be foolish, PHA!"
But the youth was proud,
And swore aloud,
'T was just the thing to astonish the crowd—
He'd have the horses and wouldn't be cowed!
In vain the boy was cautioned at large,
He called for the chargers, unheeding the charge,
And vowed that any young fellow of force,
Could manage a dozen coursers, of course!
Now PHOEBUS felt exceedingly sorry
He had given his word in such a hurry,
But having sworn by the Styx, no doubt
He was in for it now, and couldn't back out.

So calling Phaethon up in a trice,
He gave the youth a bit of advice:—
"'Parce stimulis, utere loris!'
(A "stage direction," of which the core is,
Don't use the whip—they're ticklish things—
But, whatever you do, hold on to the strings!)
Remember the rule of the Jehu-tribe is,
'Medio tutissimus ibis'
(As the Judge remarked to a rowdy Scotchman,
Who was going to quod between two watchmen!)
So mind your eye, and spare your goad,
Be shy of the stones, and keep in the road!"

Now Phaethon, perched in the coachman's place,
Drove off the steeds at a furious pace,
Fast as coursers running a race,
Or bounding along in a steeple-chase!
Of whip and shout there was no lack,
"Crack—whack—
Whack—crack"
Resounded along the horses' back!—
Frightened beneath the stinging lash,
Cutting their flanks in many a gash,
On—on they sped as swift as a flash,
Through thick and thin away they dash,
(Such rapid driving is always rash!)
When all at once, with a dreadful crash,
The whole "establishment" went to smash!
And Phaethon, he,
As all agree,
Off the coach was suddenly hurled,
Into a puddle, and out of the world!

MORAL.

Don't rashly take to dangerous courses—
Nor set it down in your table of forces,
That any one man equals any four horses!
Don't swear by the Styx!—
It's one of Old Nick's
Diabolical tricks
To get people into a regular "fix,"
And hold 'em there as fast as bricks!

THE SCHOOL-HOUSE. [AFTER GOLDSMITH.] JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

Propt on the marsh, a dwelling now, I see
The humble school-house of my A, B, C,
Where well-drilled urchins, each behind his tire,
Waited in ranks the wished command to fire,
Then all together, when the signal came,
Discharged their A-B ABS against the dame,
Who, 'mid the volleyed learning, firm and calm,
Patted the furloughed ferule on her palm,
And, to our wonder, could detect at once
Who flashed the pan, and who was downright dunce.

There young Devotion learned to climb with ease
The gnarly limbs of Scripture family-trees,
And he was most commended and admired
Who soonest to the topmost twig perspired;
Each name was called as many various ways
As pleased the reader's ear on different days,
So that the weather, or the ferule's stings,
Colds in the head, or fifty other things,
Transformed the helpless Hebrew thrice a week
To guttural Pequot or resounding Greek,
The vibrant accent skipping here and there
Just as it pleased invention or despair;
No controversial Hebraist was the Dame;
With or without the points pleased her the same.
If any tyro found a name too tough,
And looked at her, pride furnished skill enough;
She nerved her larynx for the desperate thing,
And cleared the five-barred syllables at a spring.

Ah, dear old times! there once it was my hap,
Perched on a stool, to wear the long-eared cap;
From books degraded, there I sat at ease,
A drone, the envy of compulsory bees.